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Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione Granger had, of course, made a list.

Or tried to.

The first one she wrote—within hours of waking up in her fourteen-year-old body—had to be burned. It made her heart race just to look at it. Her handwriting was frantic, half-illegible. Some lines were scratched out and rewritten so many times they’d torn the parchment. One entry had simply read “Burn Malfoy Manor to the ground,” underlined three times. 

The second list was no better. Less unhinged, maybe. But still entirely useless.

Checklist for Fourth Year (Version 2):
– Prevent Harry’s abduction from the maze
– Prevent his subsequent torture in the cemetery
– Prevent Voldemort’s return to a body

Noble on parchment. Suicidal in practice.

It was the kind of list you made when you still believed you could save everyone—idealistic to the point of delusion.

Stopping the portkey abduction in the third task was no guarantee that Harry wouldn’t end up in the graveyard—there could still be other contingency plans she had no knowledge of; Barty Crouch Junior was, unfortunately, intelligent and determined—he would undoubtedly have a back-up method for kidnapping Harry. 

Not to mention that Voldemort had been pursuing his resurrection for years ; if the graveyard ritual failed this time, what stopped him from trying again? A thwarted resurrection didn’t end the war—it prolonged it.

And maybe worst of all: if the Dark Lord remained bodiless, hunting him down became far more difficult. It’s hard to kill something that can’t bleed.

As if it weren’t hard enough with seven goddamned horcruxes anchoring him to the earth.

The third list was equally flawed.

Checklist for Fourth Year (Version 3):
– Secure the Sword of Gryffindor
– Gather basilisk fangs (or harvest venom)
– Begin destroying horcruxes early

It was heroic Gryffindor nonsense dressed up in clean bullet points.

The sword was locked in Dumbledore’s office. The Chamber of Secrets couldn’t be accessed without Harry. And Hermione wasn’t supposed to know about horcruxes for another two years.

Worse than the associated dangers was the potential for drawing attention. Taking any one of these actions would place her directly under Dumbledore’s scrutiny. And she didn’t trust the man—not anymore.

He had sent Harry into the forest to die.

Not in desperation or as a last ditch effort to salvage the Battle of Hogwarts. But as the endgame in a plan he'd been quietly shaping for years—one that required Harry’s life as a final offering.

She would never forgive him for grooming her best friend—her brother in all but blood—to become a martyr. 

No, Hermione had to remain discreet. Unnoticed. Insignificant.

Which led, eventually, to the compromise. Not a plan to defeat Lord Voldemort so much as a stopgap. A placeholder. Things she could do until his resurrection without cracking the timeline wide open:

Checklist for Fourth Year (Version 4):
Operation Make-Life-Marginally-Better:
– Do not let Cedric Diggory die (preferably at all, but especially not in front of Harry)
– Learn Occlumency
– Keep Harry alive through the Tournament (again)
– Help Harry realize he fancies Ginny sooner (Yule Ball, maybe?)
– Prevent Ron from turning into a jealous prat
– Encourage better study habits in Harry and Ron (without “nagging”; try incentives?)
– Intervene sparingly with fake-Moody’s child-endangerment (ferret incident excluded)
– Break Neville’s wand
– Threaten Skeeter sooner
– Befriend Luna sooner
– Convince Padfoot to stay in a real house with food instead of a cave
 

It was absurd, really—how quickly her checklist had gone from ‘prevent a murder’ to ‘play matchmaker.’

On parchment, it looked deranged.

But what else was she supposed to do?

She was trapped in this stopgap-of-a-fourth-year with too much knowledge and not enough power, waiting for future horrors to be set in motion so that she could fix them. 

If she couldn’t prevent the war from happening altogether, she could at least try to make Harry’s life slightly less miserable. Maybe help Neville get a better wand. Make sure Luna didn’t have to eat lunch alone. Small things. Quiet things.

The first time through, none of them had realized how little time they had. How rare it was to laugh without flinching, to sleep without fear. They’d wasted it on petty fights—on insecurities.

Now she knew better. And so she would scrape happiness wherever it could be found and infuse it into her friends’ lives. 

And, anyway, it wasn’t like she had anything else to strive for.

Her OWL scores hadn’t mattered, in the end. No one cares how hard you studied when you’re running from snatchers. The version of herself that had lived and breathed studying timetables did not travel back in time with her.

No. Hermione couldn’t find it in herself to care about exams or accolades or future career aspirations.

She hadn’t survived the war the first time.

She certainly didn’t expect to survive it the second.

Pretending to be that bright-eyed girl again, the one who raised her hand too much and lost sleep over test scores… It was going to be hard. 

But Hermione Granger could do hard things.

She just had to stay quiet. Stay useful. Stay alive.

And maybe—just maybe—she would change the ending.

If all went according to plan, Harry would not die during the Battle of Hogwarts.

Because if all went according to plan, there would be no Battle of Hogwarts.

Chapter Text

Harry

Harry didn’t notice it at first.

Hermione had always been intense. Quiet when she was thinking. Sharp when she was planning. She snapped at Ron at least twice a day and carried more books than any one person needed. That was normal.

But this—this wasn’t intensity. This was something else.

She was quiet, yes, but not in a focused way. She had… dulled around the edges. She barely argued with Ron anymore. She laughed less. Her food was going half-eaten on her plate. And Harry had caught her staring off into space more than once, her mouth drawn tight like she was bracing for something awful.

It felt… wrong.

He didn’t have the words for it, exactly. Just a gnawing sense in his chest that something inside Hermione had gone gray and cold—and she was trying very hard to keep anyone from noticing.

It was the third week of term, a Saturday just after lunch, and Ron was lying upside-down on the Gryffindor common room sofa. He was balancing a Chocolate Frog on his chin and trying to catch it with his mouth.

Harry watched in silence for a full minute before blurting, “I think something’s wrong with Hermione.”

Ron missed the frog. It fell to the floor with a soft plap . “She’s always weird before tests.”

“There aren’t any tests yet.”

“Well, then, maybe she’s just being Hermione.” Ron sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. He gave an unbothered shrug. “She gets like this. Overthinks stuff.”

Harry leaned forward. “But she’s… quiet—and not the focused kind of quiet. And she’s obviously tired. And she’s been skipping meals.”

Ron shrugged again. “I dunno, mate. Maybe she’s got, like, girl problems?”

Harry blinked. “That’s your theory? ‘Girl problems?’”

“I don’t know!” Ron said defensively. “She’s not exactly chatty with me either. Maybe she’s just annoyed that we’ve been sleeping through Binns’ ramblings.”

“Hermione hasn’t been paying attention to Binns, either.”

Ron frowned at that, clearly just now realizing it.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “She doesn’t yell anymore. Have you noticed that? She just looks... done. Like she’s here but not really here.”

Ron stood, stretching. “You’re overthinking it. She’s probably just having an off week.”

Harry stood too, frustration prickling under his skin. “So, what—you’re blowing this off because you don’t want to deal with it?”

“Oi, that’s not fair!”

“Isn’t it?”

Ron scowled. “Look, I get it. You’re worried. But she’s probably just in a funk. Maybe she’s stressed about the Tournament—she’s been going on and on about how dangerous it is.”

“Maybe,” Harry said, even though he didn’t believe it. 

Granted, Hermione had been making a point of repeatedly bringing up how many people had died in prior Triwizard Tournaments, and how ‘no one in their right mind’ would enter unless they were of age. She usually followed this with a pointed look at Harry, who made it very clear he personally wanted nothing to do with the tournament. A normal year without threat of death sounded excellent to him, thank-you-very-much. 

At first Harry thought she was actually concerned that he might try to enter the tournament (not that that would even be possible, with the age restriction). But then he noticed how she pointedly directed these conversations in front of Ron; at one point, she had even rephrased Harry’s response, saying: “Yes, that makes sense Harry—you would never willingly enter a deadly tournament when all you want is a quiet year and no attention.” 

It was… strange. To say the least.

Ron grabbed his wand off the armrest and headed for the boys’ stairs. “She’s Hermione. She’ll be fine. Just leave it be, mate.”

Harry stared at the fire for a long moment after Ron disappeared, the logs crackling too cheerily for how heavy his chest felt.

She wasn’t fine.

But Harry had no clue how to help.

The thing about Hermione was that she always noticed everything . Missed homework, crooked ties, subtext in books no one else read. She noticed things before they happened, sometimes.

So it took Harry far too long to realize something was wrong with her.

He’d been too focused on himself at first—on the way his limbs ached less climbing stairs, how his vision didn’t black out when he stood up too fast. He’d grown almost two full inches since term started, and his skin didn’t cling quite so tightly to his bones anymore. It was mid-October, now, and he was finally putting two and two together.

Hermione had noticed. Hermione had intervened.

She had handed him a vial the first week of term, no explanation beyond a curt “take this” and a glare that dared him to ask questions. He’d drunk it without protest—trusting her implicitly—assuming it was for short-term concentration or something.

It wasn’t.

It was for undoing the damage caused by years of on-and-off starvation. For filling in the nutritional gaps that had stunted his growth and hollowed out his frame. For speeding his recovery from childhood malnutrition so that he could be a normal, healthy teenager. 

He hadn’t even known potions like that existed.

One little potion, and he was looking and feeling better than he had ever thought possible. 

And now here she was—barely touching her porridge, pushing berries around her bowl like they had offended her.

Hermione wasn’t just quiet anymore. She was shrinking.

She sat straighter than anyone else at the table, but she looked tired . Her eyes were duller. Her cheeks were losing their roundness. The bones of her collarbone showed through her blouse more than they had in September.

The idea of his body finally reaching a healthy weight while she withered made his chest ache.

So Harry started sneaking snacks to her.

Nothing big. Just small things. A flapjack wrapped in a napkin. A few pumpkin pasties he pretended that he didn’t want. Once, he left a Honeydukes chocolate square under her copy of Runic Theory during Transfiguration. She didn’t say anything, but the wrapper was gone when class ended.

He didn’t know if it helped. But it made the ache in his chest a little more bearable.

They were leaving the library when it happened.

Hermione’s bag was slung too low on her shoulder, and the book she was carrying, Runic Theory —Gods, she had been reading that same book for weeks —kept slipping. She looked pale and jittery, like she’d drunk too much coffee and not eaten. Harry had half a muffin wrapped in a napkin in his hand. He didn’t say anything. Just held it out to her as they walked.

She froze mid-step.

“I’m not hungry,” she said, sharp as glass.

“Oh. Okay,” Harry said awkwardly. “I just—”

“I don’t need you to mother me, Harry!”

Her voice cracked through the quiet corridor like a slap. Harry blinked, stunned.

“I’m older than you!” she snapped. “For Merlin’s sake—I can take care of myself!”

He didn’t respond. Just slowly lowered the muffin and nodded once.

Hermione’s expression didn’t soften. She turned and left without another word.

Harry didn’t see her again until later than evening. The common room was quiet, bathed in warm firelight and humming with the sound of quills scratching parchment. Harry was alone on the couch near the hearth, staring at an unfinished essay as though it would magically write itself.

Hermione approached like someone sneaking up on a sleeping hippogriff.

“Can I sit?”

He nodded, his shoulders tense. She sank down beside him, spine straight, eyes on the fire.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “For earlier.”

Harry didn’t say anything right away. Just let the silence stretch until it felt honest.

“It’s fine,” he said finally. He bit his lip, doodling on the edge of his parchment and avoiding her gaze as he added, “I just… wanted to help.”

“I know,” Hermione murmured. “And you were helping. You are.”

Another pause. Then he cleared his throat. “D’you want to go for a walk? Around the lake or something. Just for a bit. You don’t… you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

Hermione turned toward him fully. Her eyes looked tired, but something behind them had thawed.

“Yeah,” she said. “That sounds... nice, actually.”

The lake was quiet this time of evening, the sky smudged with violet clouds and the water dark as glass. Leaves skittered across the worn path in crisp little gusts, and the castle glowed softly behind them, golden windows flickering in the growing dark.

They walked in silence at first.

Harry kept his hands in his pockets. Hermione’s were shoved into the sleeves of her jumper. Every so often, their shoulders brushed.

“I used to love this walk,” she said finally, voice low. “Fourth year. Before everything got so... complicated.”

Harry glanced sideways. “It’s still our fourth year.”

“Is it?” she said, more to herself than to him.

Harry didn’t know how to answer that, so he didn’t try.

They walked a little farther, the path crunching beneath their feet.

“I think I’m just… tired,” Hermione said eventually. “And I don’t mean from school. Or classes. It’s just—” She made a vague, helpless motion in the air. “Like I’m carrying too much. Like something cracked open and didn’t go back the way it was supposed to.”

Harry nodded slowly. Looking just ahead, at the lake, where the squid’s tentacles rippled just beneath the surface.

“I’m not trying to shut you out,” she added quickly. “I know it seems like I’ve been... distant.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” Harry said quietly. “Not if you’re not ready.”

Hermione looked down at the path. “It’s not that I’m not ready. It’s just—some things aren’t really explainable. Not in a way that makes sense.”

Harry gave a soft huff of a laugh. “Story of my life.”

That earned him the ghost of a smile.

They stopped at the edge of the water, where a flat rock jutted out like a seat. Hermione sat first, and Harry joined her, their knees almost touching. The air was cool but not cold.

After a moment, she said, “You’ve been really kind to me. More than I’ve deserved, probably.”

Harry shook his head. “You’ve looked after me for three years, Hermione. Kept me alive, mostly, but kept me healthy and happy too.” He bumped her with his shoulder, a tentative grin on his face. “Gave me that potion without even telling me what it was.”

She looked faintly embarrassed. “You needed it.”

“Well… now you do, too, sort of,” Harry said tentatively. “You’re hardly eating.”

Hermione didn’t answer immediately. The lake lapped quietly at the rocks below them, water catching the last of the fading light.

“I know,” she said eventually, voice low. “It’s hard sometimes. To feel... real. Like I’m here and not just pretending to be.”

Harry swallowed, unsure what to say to that. He watched the ripples stretch across the lake and breathed in the crisp autumn air.

“I’ll worry a lot less,” he said finally, “if you eat three square meals a day.”

That made her snort—barely. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“I’m serious, Hermione.”

She glanced at him, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll make an effort. For you.”

Harry gave her a crooked smile. “Thanks. I’ll even throw in the good pumpkin pasties.”

Hermione smiled, but it faded quickly. The silence returned—not cold, just dense. Weighted.

“Hermione,” Harry said, his voice hesitant. “I’ve been thinking… if there’s a potion that could undo years of malnutrition—what you gave me, I mean—then maybe there’s something Madam Pomfrey could give you, too?”

Hermione blinked at him.

“I just mean—if something’s weighing on you, maybe it’s not all in your head. Or maybe it is, and that’s still real. I don’t know. But Pomfrey would. She could help.”

Hermione stared at the lake for a moment longer before speaking.

“There are potions for that,” she said quietly. “For depression. Mood regulation. Emotional stabilization.” She gave a tired huff of a laugh. “I’ve read about them. I just… I don’t know. It didn’t occur to me that I might need one.”

Harry reached over and took her hand. She let him.

“Well,” he said, “based on recent feedback from your best friend, I think maybe you do.”

She looked at him—really looked at him—and sighed. “Yeah. I think I do, too.”

A beat passed. “Do you want to go see Pomfrey in the morning?” he finally asked. “We could go together.”

Hermione squeezed his fingers. “I’d like that.”

They sat like that for a while longer, their joined hands resting on the cool stone between them, saying nothing.

Eventually, Hermione broke the silence.

“Are you happy this year?”

Harry looked over at her, surprised. “That’s a strange question.”

“Is it?” she asked, almost absentmindedly.

“I guess I am,” he said after a pause. “Happy enough, I suppose. No Voldemort so far. Divination is still rubbish. But my only real worry lately’s been... well. You.”

The admission struck something in Hermione. Harry could see it—a flicker of pain that passed across her face quickly, but left a heaviness behind. Her gaze dropped to their hands.

“Sorry,” Harry added quickly, backpedaling. “I didn’t mean that the way it—”

“It’s alright,” Hermione interrupted. Her voice was soft, but there was a glimmer of something in her eyes now—a hard-won spark beneath the exhaustion. “After tomorrow morning—after Pomfrey gets me on a potion for my depression, or whatever it is—you won’t have to worry at all.”

She looked up at him then and smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes but tried to. “I promise.”

Harry didn’t say anything. Just nodded and gave her hand another squeeze.

And for the first time in weeks, it felt like maybe—just maybe—he had hope that his Hermione might come back.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The potion helped.

Hermione had expected that nothing could fix her. She’d taken it for Harry—her best friend, her brother in all but blood , the person she would traverse time itself to protect. And maybe part of her had taken it to prove it wouldn’t work. That she was simply too far gone to be fixed with a neatly labeled vial from Madam Pomfrey.

But it helped.

The fog hadn’t lifted all at once, but she noticed it in pieces. The color in the trees. The taste of apple tart. The fact that Ron’s jokes occasionally made her snort instead of triggering a migraine. The impulse to curl up under the covers and disappear forever… faded.

Most importantly: she could think clearly again.

And now that her mind had resumed its usual sprinting pace, she realized something horrifying.

She’d made no bullet points for herself.

Her checklist was meticulous: Protect Harry. Save Cedric. Bolster Ron. Spread small kindnesses to Neville, Ginny, and Luna. 

Break Neville’s wand? Done. Easy. All it took was a staged stumble during Charms and a well-aimed misfire.

Laying groundwork with Ron? Already in motion. Subtle comments here, offhand observations there, just enough that when Harry’s name came flying out of the Goblet, Ron might (Gods willing) contain his raging jealousy.

She’d even prepped Harry for enduring the tasks to come. Nutrient potion. Careful coaching in the form of casual conversations (“Neville told me there’s a plant that lets you breathe underwater…”). Not enough to raise red flags—just enough to tilt fate slightly in their favor.

But through all of that, not once had she written down or pursued a single goal for improving Hermione Granger’s quality of life.

Hermione hadn’t planned for a version of the timeline where she lived after the war.

Why would she? She hadn’t the first time.

It struck her as almost funny—tragically, cosmically funny—that she’d invested in everyone’s future but her own. As if she were still disposable. As if her happiness didn’t matter unless it served someone else.

And worst of all, it had circled back. Her own collapse had made Harry suffer. Had made him worry. And that was unacceptable.

So she added new entries to her ever-growing list:

Operation Make-Life-Marginally-Better (Addendum)
– Stop assuming I won’t live past the war
– Pursue what makes me feel alive, even if it won’t help the war effort

She still couldn’t bring herself to care about OWLs. Not even a little. But she could muster up motivation to pursue research on other topics that merely intrigued her.

Like how to make Muggle technology work at Hogwarts. Because it wasn’t supposed to be possible, and Hermione Granger had never met a magical law she didn’t secretly want to break.

Also, she missed her walkman. Desperately.

So yes—maybe she wasn’t the bright-eyed girl she used to be.

But she was here. Living. Planning. Working.

It was enough, for now.

The last two weeks of October were incredibly dull—even after her fog had mostly lifted.

Her fourth-year classes—entirely free of horror, warfare, or existential stakes—were becoming unbearable.

She knew she couldn’t afford to be reckless. She had promised herself she wouldn’t disrupt the timeline prematurely. She would wait. She would be patient. 

But patience, it turned out, was incredibly tedious (and perhaps not her strong suit).

So she had taken to spending her afternoons in the library, glamouring advanced magical texts to look like innocuous fourth-year reading materials. Madam Pince never noticed. Neither did any of the students who bustled through the stacks. Hermione had grown quite confident in her system.

Until the week before Halloween.

She was mid-glamour when it happened. She silently tapped the spine of Practical Applications of Mental Fortification: An Introduction to the Mind Arts with her wand, and, with a shimmer, the cover shifted to resemble Runic Theory .

Satisfied, she cradled the tome to her chest and turned toward her favorite window nook.

And stopped.

Across the aisle, seated at a desk near the wall of Herbology references, was a boy she had never paid much attention to before. Dark hair, crisp robes, a pale wrist angled against a leather-bound journal. 

Theodore Nott.

He was looking directly at her.

Not just looking— observing , as though with the polite curiosity of someone noting the wingbeat pattern of a rare bird. His gaze was steady, unreadable, and far too sharp for comfort.

Hermione flushed.

Her brain, normally so quick with plausible excuses, stalled. Should she say something? Make an excuse for her strange behavior?

Before she could make a sound, Nott stood.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t smirk or scoff or narrow his eyes the way Malfoy might have. He simply walked past her, his steps even, gaze forward, hands in his pockets like he had seen nothing at all.

Hermione stood there a full three seconds after, dumbstruck; she stood with the book pressed too tightly to her chest, her ears burning.

Then she marched to her window nook, cracked open the (supposed) Runes textbook, and pretended to read intently.

Her eyes didn’t take in a single word.

From that moment on, she noticed him everywhere.

In every class they shared—Runes, Arithmancy, Astronomy, and Potions—her gaze would flicker and land on him, as if pulled by a magnetic thread. Theodore Nott, seated neatly at the edge of every Slytherin group—always composed, always studious.

How had she never given him any notice before?

He was a Slytherin, yes. And she had spent the better part of three years categorizing Slytherins under the categories: generally hostile and bigoted blood supremacists. But Nott was… different. Intelligent. Quietly skilled for his age. He cast spells with a sort of elegant detachment, like he was tuning an instrument rather than performing magic.

The more she observed him, the more troubled she felt.

Because he never said a word to her. Never even acknowledged her presence. And yet… more than once, when she caught his gaze across a crowded room, she thought—irrationally, she was sure—that the corner of his mouth twitched upward. 

As though he knew he was her new curiosity.

And perhaps, she thought with growing unease, she was his.

The Gryffindor common room was unusually lively for a Thursday evening. Someone had enchanted a quill to chase Neville in lazy circles, and Seamus was telling a wildly embellished story involving a salamander, a singed sock, and Professor Sprout’s eyebrows. Hermione, however, had commandeered the corner with three airchairs and planted herself firmly between Harry and Ron, book in hand and mission in mind.

Her eyes flicked up and caught a flash of copper hair just starting toward the girls’ staircase. She stood quickly. “Ginny!”

Ginny halted mid-step and turned, blinking. “Yeah?”

“Come here for a sec—I wanted to tell you something.” Hermione waited until the younger girl approached, then dropped her voice just slightly. “That Ravenclaw, Catriona Winthrop, from my Runes class? She mentioned she’s looking for someone to train with—I thought that might be perfect for you.”

Both Harry and Ron had looked up, curious and dumbfounded respectively.

“Wha’? Trai’ing?” Ron mumbled through an impressive mouthful of cake.

Ginny, for her part, was blushing scarlet and clearly avoiding Harry’s eyes.

Hermione stepped in smoothly. “Ginny wants to try out for Chaser next year. With so many seventh-years graduating, there will be spots open.”

“But you don’t fly,” Ron said flatly.

Ginny turned to him, clearly annoyed. “I’ve been sneaking out to train on Charlie’s old broom for the past two years, actually. You just haven’t noticed because you’re incapable of waking up before noon in the summer.”

Ron flushed an uneven, blotchy red and muttered something incoherent. Harry, meanwhile, looked genuinely impressed.

“That’s great, Ginny,” he said, smiling at her. “If you’re looking to train with more people, I bet Dean would be interested—he plays Chaser too. If you find a fourth person, you could even do two-on-two matches or something.”

Ginny glanced up at him just long enough to catch his eye, then said, flustered, “That’s… that’s a great idea, Harry.”

She then fled up the stairs before anyone could say more.

Hermione groaned internally. 

Harry and Ron had already moved on, grumbling about the latest dream logs Professor Trelawney had assigned.

“I wrote that I dreamed I had watched my dearest friend drown,” Ron muttered. “Sorry, mate, but Trelawney will eat that up.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dryly.

Hermione pulled out a book, The Magical Theory of Muggle Technology (disguised as her fourth year Arithmancy textbook) and opened to her bookmarked page. At least she had attempted to make progress toward the ‘matchmaking’ goal. 

The final days leading up to Halloween brought with them a sharp bite of wind, enchanted cobwebs along the Great Hall rafters, and a sense of mounting excitement—or dread, depending on who you asked.

“Do you think he’ll enter?” Ron asked around a mouthful of toast, gesturing toward the Hufflepuff table.

Hermione looked up to see Cedric Diggory laughing politely as a group of Ravenclaw sixth-years crowded around him. He shook his head, said something modest, and scratched the back of his neck in a way that made him look effortlessly charming.

“Just turned seventeen, didn’t he?” Harry said absently, spearing a sausage. “He’s a sixth year but has a September birthday—like Hermione.”

“Typical,” Ron muttered. “If a Hufflepuff ends up being our champion, I’ll—”

“Swoon,” said Lavender, missing Ron’s tone entirely. She was sitting nearby with Parvati and watching Cedric along with what appeared to be every other student in the Great Hall.

“Doesn’t matter what House the champion is in,” Parvati agreed, sighing. “Diggory could be the champion of a puddle and I’d still cheer for him.”

“He’s so dreamy,” Lavender added, twirling a curl around her finger.

“Yeah,” Harry said, without looking up.

The word hung in the air for a moment—then Harry blinked, turned a pink from the tip of his nose to his ears, and busied himself with his pumpkin juice.

Hermione blinked.

Miraculously, no one else seemed to have heard Harry’s comment. Her brain churned in momentary confusion (Had something changed from the original timeline? Or had she simply missed this before—like everyone else had?) before deciding to file the event away for later examination.

It was probably nothing.

Angelina Johnson plopped into a seat across from them, her braided hair pulled into a high knot and her Quidditch robes slung over her shoulders.

“Three more people just told me I should enter,” she said, looking mildly exasperated. “As if I haven’t already been thinking about it.”

“I think you’d be brilliant,” Harry said honestly. 

Angelina raised an eyebrow at him, then grinned. “Thanks, Harry.”

Fred and George joined the conversation, and Hermione lost interest; she knew what was going to happen, after all. 

She pulled out her latest borrowed—and thoroughly glamoured—book, a dense text on the practice of mental partitioning for Occlumency. Though the cover read Runic Theory , on the inside it was an Occlumency manual that made her head spin in the best way. A way that made her feel particularly alive and present.

She was trying to teach herself how to meditate in distracting environments. The Great Hall, with its clatter of cutlery and occasional owls swooping in overhead, certainly qualified.

She let herself breathe, let the sound recede, let the tension between her eyebrows melt away. Her surroundings dulled, like someone had cast Muffliato on the entire room.

“Hermione?”

The voice barely registered.

“Oi!”

Someone snapped their fingers in front of her face.

Hermione jerked back to full awareness as Ron waved his hand impatiently.

“Come on, we’ll be late! Snape will have our hides if we show up past the hour.”

“Oh!” Hermione scrambled, grabbing her book bag. She didn’t bother dropping the glamoured book into it—she just carried it in arm and jogged after Harry and Ron as they hurried down to the dungeons.

The chill of the lower corridors bit at her cheeks as they turned a corner—

And someone clipped her shoulder.

The book tumbled from her arms, skidding across the flagstones.

Her wand was in her hand before she had time to think—war-honed instincts, half-buried but never gone, flaring to life.

“Easy, now,” came a dry voice.

Theodore Nott was already bent down, retrieving her book from the floor. He straightened with it in hand, eyebrows raised with mild amusement.

Hermione stowed her wand, mortified. “I—sorry. Reflex.”

“No need to apologize,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from the cover. He thumbed through the book with a casual air. “Though I must say, Runic Theory is a much more exciting read than I remember. Especially this bit in chapter six about anchoring memory palaces in shifting environments.”

Her stomach dropped. She reached out to take back the book, but Nott pulled it just slightly out of reach, smirking.

“I must’ve missed that section when I read it. Then again…” His sapphire eyes flicked to hers, calm and knowing. “You always were ahead of the curve.”

Hermione’s mouth parted, the beginnings of a protest forming—but a loud voice cut across the corridor.

“Out of the way, Mudblood.”

Malfoy.

Hermione turned just in time to see Harry and Ron tense, Malfoy’s usual sneer firmly in place as he sauntered forward with Crabbe and Goyle flanking him like a pair of trolls.

Ron was already snapping back at him. Harry said something curt and low. Spells fired.

And then, before Hermione could even take a step, Malfoy’s wand jerked toward her in retribution.

“Densaugeo!”

Pain bloomed across her upper palate as her front teeth grew rapidly, pressing against her lower lip awkwardly. 

Circe’s twisted left tit. How had she forgotten about this?

The laughter was instant—from Malfoy, from Crabbe and Goyle, even a few Slytherins down the hall. But Hermione didn’t cry this time. Didn’t run away covering her face.

She met Malfoy’s gaze, even as the spell throbbed against her gums, and rolled her eyes.

Uninterested in hearing Snape’s comment-to-come this time ‘round, she started marching toward the hospital wing without a backwards glance.

At least she could take the opportunity to get rid of her old buck teeth. She’d really not missed them.

It wasn’t until she was two corridors away, climbing the stairs with her hand cradling her aching chin, that she realized something else.

She’d never taken the book back from Nott.

The covered bridge between the castle and the greenhouses was one of Hermione’s favorite places to think. It creaked in the wind and swayed slightly underfoot, but the open railings allowed for a perfect view of the grounds—and, at this particular hour, a perfect view of Cedric Diggory jogging up the slope from the Quidditch pitch.

Hermione leaned on the railing, pretending to page through a copy of Hogwarts: A History (she could quote it in her sleep) while keeping one eye trained on Cedric’s path. He was freshly showered, hair still damp, Quidditch gear replaced with a casual sweater and trousers. He slowed near the edge of the greenhouses, waving to Professor Sprout as she disappeared into Greenhouse Two.

Hermione’s quill hovered over a folded piece of parchment she’d labeled C.D. – Routine .

She had no concrete plan for saving his life yet. Ensuring he didn’t reach the cup with Harry was a million piece puzzle. Should she thwart him in the early tasks to ensure a later entry into the maze? Should she infiltrate the maze itself—like fake-Mad-Eye Moody did—and stun him? Hermione couldn’t decide what was the most surefire (and least despicable) way to prevent his “success” in reaching the cup with Harry. 

Until she had a plan, she had decided to learn his habits—his routines. She could only hope that some idea might present itself. 

“Studying Diggory now?”

Hermione jerked upright.

Theodore Nott leaned lazily against the far post of the bridge, half in shadow, arms crossed. She had no idea how long he’d been there. His voice wasn’t mocking—exactly—but it carried a sharp edge that set her on alert.

“I’m not—” she began too quickly, tucking the parchment inside her book.

Nott pushed off the post and walked toward her, gaze trailing down to the book in her hands.

“You're not?” he said. “Because I’d wager the chapter on Cedric Diggory’s afternoon cardio isn’t in Hogwarts: A History .”

Hermione flushed. “I was just—thinking—staring off into space mindlessly.”

“Sure,” Nott said, stopping beside her at the railing. He glanced toward the greenhouses, where Cedric had disappeared. “He's easy to stare at mindlessly, I suppose. Tall. Handsome. Positively golden when the sun hits him just right.”

Hermione blinked at him, equally confused by his comments and his incensed tone.

Before she could decide how to respond, Nott reached into his satchel and pulled out her Runic Theory book—glamoured cover still intact—and presented it with a flourish.

“For you,” he said smoothly. 

Her mouth opened. Closed. “Took your sweet time to return it,” she finally grumbled, snatching it from him.

Nott merely raised an eyebrow. “You’re most welcome, Miss Granger.” 

Hermione felt her face heat ever so slightly, chagrined. 

“Are you looking forward to tonight’s feast?” he asked, eyes curious.

She made a non-committal sound.

No, she was most certainly not looking forward to tonight’s feast. It would be the last moment of peace Harry had during this godforsaken year.

“The betting pool is going to be a mess.”

Hermione’s eyes snapped to him, and found his deep blue irises observing her reaction.

“Interesting,” he murmured, a sly smile on his lips.

Hermione felt her stomach plummet. She cursed herself briefly before deciding she was overreacting. Whatever he was alluding to… well, there was no way he had even an inkling of the truth.

“Thank you for returning the book, Nott,” she said swiftly, giving an awkward nod and fleeing down the bridge toward the castle.

After Hermione hurried off the bridge, flustered by the odd exchange, she spotted Harry sitting outside on the steps near the Entrance Hall.

He looked peaceful.

Hermione’s heart ached with the knowledge of what was to come. 

“I thought you were in the library,” Harry said as Hermione dropped beside him on the stone steps.

“I was… taking a walk.” She tried not to sound like she’d just fled a conversation involving Theodore Nott and her own hubris.

Harry didn’t push. Just nodded.

They sat in silence for a few beats, watching as students trickled toward the Great Hall, robes fluttering in the breeze. The air smelled like roasted squash and something cinnamon-laced—festive and harmless, for now.

Harry’s eyes drifted toward Dean and Seamus, who were loitering by the banister. Seamus nudged Dean with his hip, laughing at something he’d said, and Dean responded with a low, warm chuckle.

Harry squinted slightly, then turned to Hermione. “Are they… dating?”

Hermione followed his gaze and smiled softly. “Not officially. But yes, I think so.”

Harry looked mildly stunned. “Really?”

“Dean is bisexual,” Hermione said easily. “Seamus is gay.”

Harry blinked, clearly trying to process that. “I didn’t know that was… I mean, I didn’t think—”

“What?” she asked, amused. “That boys could like boys? That Dean could like both?”

He turned red. “No, I mean—I just didn’t know anyone who was… open about it. That they… er… could be.”

Hermione observed him for a moment, the filed-away comment that Harry made about Diggory earlier in the week surfaced in her mind. 

Somehow, she and Harry had never spoken about preferences before—in the prior timeline, or this one. 

And Hermione suddenly had the slightly uneasy feeling in her gut that maybe no one had talked to Harry about this before. Period.

“Sexualities aren’t demonized in the Wizarding world like they are in the Muggle world,” she said as casually and gently as possible. “I’m not entirely sure why, but I assume it’s because reproduction in same-sex couples is possible. No organized religion and corresponding centuries of criminalization probably also helps.”

“Huh.” Harry looked back toward Dean and Seamus. “So… nobody cares?”

“The only thing witches and wizards seem to care about is blood status,” Hermione said dryly. “The gender of who you date? Unimportant.”

Harry laughed at that, though his ears were still pink.

Hermione glanced at him sidelong. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“A bit,” he admitted, looking guilty for admitting it. “But not in a bad way. Just... new information.”

“I understand,” she said gently. She bumped him with her shoulder playfully. “But at least now, if you fancy someone who isn’t a girl, you know that it isn’t something you have to hide.”

He turned to her, startled. “W-what?”

“I mean hypothetically, obviously,” Hermione said, grinning now. 

“Oh. Right.” Harry’s face was burning again. 

Her poor friend turned into a neon sign whenever he was even remotely embarrassed.

They sat in contented silence, breathing the crisp air. Then the castle bells rang out over the grounds, signaling the start of the Halloween feast.

Hermione stood, brushing off her robes. “Come on. Let’s go see how fate is going to screw us tonight.”

Harry stood too, but he gave her a look—a soft, grateful one. “Thanks. For explaining... that.”

“Anytime,” she said, an easy smile on her lips. 

Chapter Text

Harry

The Halloween feast was as grand as ever—floating pumpkins, flickering candles, plates overflowing with roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and treacle tart. But Harry barely tasted any of it.

He was too aware.

Of everything.

Fred and Angelina were a few seats down, laughing over something Fred had whispered in her ear. Angelina rolled her eyes and smacked his shoulder, but didn’t move away. Dean and Seamus sat close together across from Harry, sharing a butterbeer and bumping knees under the table. Beside them, Lavender was brushing glitter over Parvati’s cheek and murmuring something about the after-feast gossip they’d inevitably dissect.

Harry tried to focus on his food. He really did.

But his eyes drifted.

Across the Great Hall, past the Ravenclaw table, over the long stretch of Hufflepuff yellow—

To a head of golden hair that caught the candlelight just right.

Cedric Diggory was laughing at something one of his friends had said, head thrown back, the kind of laugh that looked effortless. Honest. Like nothing could touch him.

Something fluttered in Harry’s chest, sharp and uncomfortable. He told himself it was excitement for the Goblet of Fire. Or maybe indigestion from too much treacle tart.

He dragged his gaze back to his (emptied) plate, eyeing the (clearly fascinating) remaining crumbs.

“Ready?” Ron asked beside him, jostling his arm. “It’s happening. Dumbledore’s getting up.”

Harry sat straighter as the Headmaster rose to his feet.

“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” said Dumbledore. “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber” — he indicated the door behind the staff table — “where they will be receiving their first instructions.”

He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them into a state of semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling blue-white flames almost painful on the eyes. 

Everyone watched, waiting.

The flames in the Goblet turned red, sparking upward—and a charred scrap of parchment flew into the air.

Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm’s length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he read, “is Viktor Krum!”

“No surprises there!” yelled Ron as a storm of applause and cheering swept the Hall. 

Harry saw Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table and slouch up toward Dumbledore; he turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber. 

“Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. “Knew you had it in you!”

The flames turned red again.

Another scrap.

“The champion for Beauxbatons… is Fleur Delacour!”

More applause. The girl that Ron had ogled during the past weeks—the one who resembled a Veela—got gracefully to her feet, shook back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. 

Then, a third time—red sparks, a flick of scorched paper.

“The champion for Hogwarts… is Cedric Diggory!”

The Hufflepuff table exploded. Cedric looked stunned for half a second, then broke into a grin as students clapped him on the back and shook his hand. He made his way to the front of the hall, strides long and sure, and Dumbledore offered him a warm smile and a firm handshake before gesturing toward the antechamber.

As Cedric passed through the doors—head held high—the fluttering sensation returned. This time it spread lower in Harry’s stomach. 

Harry told himself it was merely school spirit. For Hogwarts. For their chosen Champion. 

For their jaw-droppingly handsome Hogwarts Champion. 

Harry buried that last intrusive thought, suddenly very interested in the design of his goblet. 

“Excellent!” Dumbledore called happily as the tumult died down. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real—” 

But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him. The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment.

Dumbledore caught it.

He stared at it for a moment too long. He cleared his throat, and then read out:

“Harry Potter.”

He hadn’t spoken loudly. But the entire hall heard it just the same.

Silence fell like a spell.

Harry felt his heart stutter. Then stop. Then race.

He didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered from somewhere beside him, voice gentle but urging.

Harry turned to her, to Ron; beyond them, he saw the long Gryffindor table all watching him, open-mouthed.

“I didn’t put my name in,” Harry said blankly. “You know I didn’t.”

Hermione nodded without hesitation, a deep sadness present in her gaze.

Dumbledore looked up. “Harry Potter,” he said again. “Up here, if you please.”

The room was still. Staring.

Harry got to his feet, trod on the hem of his robes, and stumbled slightly. Limbs numb, he walked the length of the hall in a daze.

He walked until he was directly in front of Dumbledore, feeling the stares of all the teachers upon him. 

“Well… through the door, Harry,” Dumbledore murmured. 

He wasn’t smiling. 

Harry walked along the teachers’ table. He went through the door out of the Great Hall and found himself in a smaller room, lined with paintings of witches and wizards. A handsome fire was roaring in the fireplace opposite him.

Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour, and Cedric Diggory were grouped around the low flames. They looked strangely impressive, silhouetted against the flames. Krum, hunched and brooding, stood slightly apart from the other two. Fleur Delacour was staring at the fire, her sheet of long, silvery hair shining in the warm light. And Cedric… 

Cedric was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking effortlessly handsome and self-assured. He cocked his head to the side when Harry walked in.

“Harry?” he asked, his tone confused but polite.

Harry blinked. He had never spoken to Cedric before, and apparently he was never going to because it felt as though he had just swallowed his own tongue.

He was absolutely incapable of producing words—or sounds, for that matter. The only tangible thought that Harry could string together was: 

Thank fuck Hermione gave me that potion—they’re all so bloody tall.

What followed was a conversation that was painful on so many levels, Harry wanted to flee the room at every turn.

Firstly, because of the politely bewildered look on Cedric’s face when Bagman blithely announced Harry was to be the fourth Triwizard Champion. 

Harry wanted the floor to swallow him whole as he realized that he had just trod on Cedric’s moment. 

(Fuck.)

Secondly, because (despite Harry’s recent growth spurt—which had put him at taller than average for his age, thank-you-very-much) Fleur Delacour referred to Harry as “zis little boy.”

(Ouch.)

Thirdly, because—according to Mad-Eye Moody—someone was trying to kill Harry. 

Again.

(Honestly, predictable.)

After everyone had dispersed—Fleur and Madame Maxime speaking in rapid, angry French—Dumbledore turned to Harry and Cedric. “Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go off to bed,” he said kindly, smiling at both of them. “I am sure Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise.” 

Harry felt vaguely ill at the idea of walking through the portrait hole to find a party being thrown in his honor.

The Great Hall was empty as they exited of the antechamber. The air had that strange, hollow quiet that always follows chaos. Pumpkins still grinned from the walls, but their faces flickered eerily now, the candlelight burning low and sluggish behind their jagged smiles.

Harry’s mind was still spiraling—through guilt, dread, and the burning embarrassment of being stared at like a liar and a cheat. Cedric was walking just ahead of him, silent, and every footstep echoed too loudly in Harry’s ears.

He probably hates me now.
Thinks I stole his spotlight.
Thinks I cheated my way in.

He was so lost in the churn of his thoughts that he didn’t notice Cedric had stopped walking until a hand brushed gently against his shoulder.

“Harry?”

Harry’s head snapped up. Cedric was looking at him with a slight crease between his brows, concern etched into the lines of his face.

He was standing shockingly close. Gods—he was tall . Six inches taller than Harry, at least. His amber eyes were bright even in the torchlight, his hair wavy and tousled and—

Harry’s lungs made an awful, traitorous squeak.

His face burst into flames—heat blossoming from the tip of his nose to his ears—and for the second time in less than an hour he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

Cedric blinked. “Are you alright?” he asked, more gently now. “You look kind of... faint.”

“I—” Harry croaked, then cleared his throat. “I’m f-fine.”

Cedric didn’t look convinced. “Let’s sit down for a sec.”

He led them to the edge of the Great Hall, where a small fire still crackled in one of the alcove hearths. With a flick of his wand—no words, just a graceful movement—he conjured a glass of water and handed it to Harry.

Harry took it, trying not to gape at the casual display of advanced, elegant magic.

“Er… thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Cedric said, sitting beside him. “You, uh... don’t exactly look like someone who just got away with the impossible… you know, tricking an untrickable age line made by Albus Dumbledore himself.”

There was a faint smile in his voice, but Harry could hear the question beneath it.

He sipped the water. It helped—his throat loosened and he found his ability to speak again. 

“I didn’t do anything impossible,” Harry croaked. “I didn’t put my name in. I swear.”

Cedric’s expression didn’t change.

“I mean it,” Harry pressed, suddenly speaking faster than he could think. “I wouldn’t even know where to start for tricking an age line—I’m not exactly at the top of my class. Merlin knows that if I’d need a potion to pull it off then I would sooner poison myself than succeed. And, besides, I don’t want this. I wanted a normal year—not a role in Death Tournament 1994.” He took an overly large gulp of water, coughed slightly, and then continued with a slight rasp in his voice: “The Hogwarts Champion ought to be you—just you. Cedric Diggory. You’re older, you’re better at magic, and—I mean, you didn’t even look scared when your name came out! You just—you looked right! Like a proper Champion—you looked perfect—”

Harry stopped talking when he realized how much he was rambling. He also realized, belatedly, that he had been staring at Cedric’s lips for the latter half of his spontaneous soliloquy.

His face caught fire all over again.

Cedric's lips twitched.

“You think I didn’t look scared?” Cedric asked, clearly amused. “I nearly tripped on the way up.”

“You didn’t!” Harry blurted.

“Almost did.” Cedric’s grin widened a fraction, then softened. “You don’t have to convince me, you know.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“That you didn’t put your name in,” Cedric said. “I believe you.”

Harry stared at him. “But... why? Not even Dumbledore believed me at first…”

Cedric merely shrugged. “Because you don’t strike me as someone who lies. And you really don’t look like someone enjoying all of this attention.”

Harry let out a dark laugh. “Definitely not.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the fire curl in on itself.

Then Harry exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well,” he muttered, “at least now I’ve got options. I’ll either die from lack of magical skill or from sheer embarrassment. Whichever comes first.”

Cedric turned his head, frowning.

“That’s not funny,” he said.

Harry gave a half-shrug. “Wasn’t really a joke.”

Cedric studied him for a long beat. Then, more quietly, he said, “You’ll be okay.”

Harry glanced over, caught off guard by how steady his voice sounded. Cedric wasn’t just saying it—he meant it.

“You don’t have to win,” Cedric continued. “Just get through it. Participate with minimum effort, maximum survival.” He shrugged before adding, “I’ll handle the rest.”

Harry blinked. “What do you mean, you’ll ‘handle the rest’?”

Cedric gave a small, lopsided smile. “I mean—it’d be a shame if the Tournament chewed you up before I had the chance to get to know you properly.” He winked. “Hogwarts Champions have to watch each other’s backs.”

Harry’s brain short-circuited, particularly caught up on ‘get to know you’ and ‘properly,’ and finally broken by the godsdamned wink.  

He was pretty sure his face had caught fire again. Maybe his whole head.

“Oh,” Harry managed, eloquently.

Cedric’s answering smile was thoroughly distracting; he had one slightly crooked tooth just off from the center. It was unbearably charming. 

Suddenly, like it was the most normal thing in the world, Cedric stood and offered Harry a hand up.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you back to your common room. Not that you need protection from your own House or anything, but... safety in numbers.”

Harry took the hand automatically and let Cedric pull him to his feet. His skin was warm, his grip firm but gentle. The skin was calloused from years on a broom; just like Harry’s.

They started toward the grand staircase in easy silence. The castle was dim now, torches guttering low, the halls unusually quiet for a night after a feast. As they approached Gryffindor Tower, Harry caught a faint burst of sound—cheering, music, the kind of revelry that usually came with fireworks and exploding sweets.

He winced.

“You don’t want to go in?” Cedric asked.

Harry shook his head. “Not really in the mood for a party.”

“Yeah. Didn’t think so,” Cedric murmured, glancing at him with a sideways smile that made Harry’s stomach do something completely uncalled for.

They had stopped in front of the portrait hole. The Fat Lady was already half-asleep, humming to herself off-key.

“Well,” Cedric said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “good luck in there. With the explosion of red and gold and chaos.”

Harry hesitated, hand on the gilded frame of the portrait. “Thanks. For earlier. For… you know. Believing me.”

Cedric’s entire expression softened. “You made it easy to believe you.”

Harry looked up at him, something tight in his chest easing just slightly.

“See you around, Harry,” Cedric added, backing away with that easy, crooked smile.

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “See you.”

After standing in stunned silence for what could have been minutes or hours, Harry gave the password to enter. Noise crashed over him like a wave—cheers, fireworks, someone shouting his name. But even as the party swept him up, Harry's mind lingered on the warmth of Cedric’s hand, the way he’d said get to know you properly, and the way he had so easily seen through the chaos and taken Harry at his word.

Harry didn’t know what to do with that.

But he knew it made him feel rather good. A bit floaty.

He could hardly think about anything other than that smile—that one crooked tooth—for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione had barely slept.

She’d spent most of the night staring at the hangings of her bed, fists clenched in her sheets, teeth grinding.

She had heard him, shouting from the boys’ dormitory. She didn’t need to listen closely to know who it was: Ron—being an absolute jealous wanker. Again.

Weeks—weeks—of laying the groundwork. Dropping comments into conversation, letting Ron overhear her say how little Harry cared about the Tournament, how uncomfortable he’d be in the spotlight. Hermione had poured real effort into it—softening Ron’s insecurities before they could erupt.

And for what?

He'd blown up the first chance he got. And Harry—sweet, exhausted Harry—was now bearing the weight of it.

So yes, Hermione was furious. Perhaps slightly murderous. But she pushed it down with her new, inelegant Occlumency skills. She took a handful of toast from the Gryffindor table the next morning, stuffed it into a napkin, and returned to wait outside the portrait hole for Harry—just like the first time this had happened.

He was the last one to exit. His eyes were shadowed, his shoulders drawn in.

“Hello,” she said calmly, holding up the toast like a peace offering. “I brought you this. Want to go for a walk?”

The way his face lit up—just slightly, with visible relief—made her heart ache and her repressed anger bubble ever so slightly.

“Good idea,” he said.

They set off down the stairs, crossed the Entrance Hall quickly without looking into the Great Hall, and were soon striding across the lawn in silence. Their breath curled white in the chilly morning air. The lake was still, the Durmstrang ship bobbing in the distance like a ghostship from a story about pirates and lost treasure.

Harry munched his toast as he told her everything: the Goblet, the champions, the antechamber, Dumbledore, the party waiting in the common room, and finally—Ron. Or more accurately, Ron’s betrayal.

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry muttered, his fists stuffed deep into his pockets. “I didn’t want this. And he acts like I planned it. Like I wanted to take something from him.”

Hermione didn’t interrupt. She let him get it all out, just listened as they walked, her boots sinking into the damp grass.

“He’s jealous,” she said simply, when Harry finally fell quiet. “He’s been jealous of you since first year. And it’s not your fault.”

Harry grimaced. “Yeah, well, it still feels like it is.”

“Jealousy isn’t an excuse to treat people like shit,” Hermione said crisply. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Harry. If Ron wants to believe the worst of you, that’s his decision—his mistake to make. It’s neither your fault nor your responsibility to fix.”

Harry looked at her, brows drawn. “You really think it’s that simple?”

“No,” she said honestly. “But I do think you deserve better than being made to feel guilty for things entirely out of your control.”

He looked down at his feet. “You’re not mad at me?”

Hermione stopped walking and turned to face him fully.

“I’m furious,” she said. “Just not at you.”

Harry blinked—and then, without warning, reached for her hand and gave it a small, tight squeeze.

“Thanks,” he said. “For being... like this.”

She squeezed back. “Someone has to be the emotionally competent one.”

That earned her a genuine laugh, and she felt the knot of tension in her chest begin to ease.

They started walking again.

“You should write to Sirius,” she said after a moment. “He’ll worry. Best to hear from you directly before the Daily Prophet twists everything into a conspiracy.”

Harry winced at the mention of the Daily Prophet. “Yeah,” Harry agreed, dragging a hand through his hair. “He’ll freak out.”

“Just be careful what you say,” Hermione warned. “Knowing Sirius, he’ll probably try to come camp out in the Shrieking Shack again.”

Harry barked a laugh.

“Maybe not, though,” she added, trying to sound casual. “He could find a flat in Hogsmeade if he wanted to. And—I can get him Polyjuice if he needs to pass as someone else, and not just an enormous dog. I have a decent amount of it.”

Harry turned to look at her. “What, like now?”

Hermione paused a beat too long.

“Er, yeah,” she said, too brightly. “You know. Just... in case.”

Harry raised a brow. “You have a vat of Polyjuice Potion just… lying around?”

“I—well—I’ve always been good at potions,” she said, floundering. “It’s educational. And technically I’m brewing it as an independent project.”

Harry gave her a look.

Hermione coughed and looked away. “I just like being prepared.”

“You don’t say.”

She was grateful when the silence returned, but it didn’t last long.

“I talked to Cedric last night,” Harry said, a little too quickly.

Hermione raised her brows. “Oh?”

“He was... really nice, actually. Said he believed me. Walked me back to the tower.”

Hermione tried not to smirk. “He seems like a decent person.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. He didn’t say more, but she saw the faint pink creeping up his neck and resisted the urge to comment.

She’d have to revise the list.

‘Harry-Ginny matchmaking’ was starting to look a little... far-fetched.

She’d have to find another way to do something nice for Ginny.

A weak beam of sunlight filtered in through the tall windows of the tower, catching in Harry’s untidy hair as he hunched over a bit of parchment. His quill hovered indecisively above the page.

Hermione appeared behind him and leaned over his shoulder.

“Still on the greeting?”

Harry scowled. “I’ve got ‘Dear Sirius.’ I think that part’s solid.”

Hermione hummed. “Yes. A strong start,” she said dryly.

“I don’t know what else to say,” Harry muttered. “Everything sounds either too dramatic or like I’m pretending it’s no big deal.”

“Well,” Hermione said, settling into the chair beside him and folding her arms, “try starting with facts. Objective, calm, basic details. Then ease into discussing the imminent dangers and emotional trauma.”

Harry scowled, but nodded. “Right.”

He dipped his quill again.

“What about: ‘I didn’t put my name in the Goblet. It happened anyway. No idea how.’”

Hermione tilted her head. “Better. But you should add that you’re safe.”

Harry sighed. “Fine. How about: ‘I didn’t enter. I don’t know how my name got in. I’m not hurt or in any danger—yet.’”

“Excellent,” she said, patting his arm. “Now take out the ‘yet.’ You’ll give him a stroke.”

“But it’s true,” Harry muttered.

“Nevertheless.”

Harry scribbled, glancing sidelong at her. “You want to just write it for me?”

“No,” she said primly, “but I will edit it heavily if you make any allusions to your possible death.”

He chuckled, and the tension in his shoulders dropped a notch.

A few minutes later, Hermione stood to read over his shoulder again. 

Dear Sirius,

I imagine you’ll see the news soon. I didn’t put my name in the Goblet. I don’t know how it happened. Dumbledore and most of the other Hogwarts professors seem to believe me. The visitors from the other schools seem furious, along with most of the Hogwarts students. The Gryffindors were thrilled, though.

I’m not hurt, and I’m not in any immediate danger. 

There are four champions now, which obviously wasn’t supposed to happen. A Hufflepuff named Cedric Diggory was chosen for Hogwarts first. He’s being really kind about all of it, which somehow makes me feel even worse.

Ron doesn’t believe me. He’s not speaking to me. That sucks.

I have Hermione, though. 

I’m writing mostly to let you know what happened before you read about it in the Prophet. I don’t need you hiding in the Shrieking Shack or breaking into the castle. I mean it. 

If you are going to sniff around (which I’m sure you’re already planning to do), maybe start looking into how someone could fool the Goblet. Professor Moody says it’s complicated magic.

Also, Hermione says to consider renting a flat in Hogsmeade. She thinks that between your Animagus form and Polyjuice you could hide in plain sight successfully. Don’t ask where she’s getting the Polyjuice from.

Write back soon.
– Harry

(P.S. I’m okay. I promise.)

“That’s good, Harry,” she said. “Clear. Honest. And just enough self-deprecating humor to sound like you.”

“Wow,” Harry said dryly. “High praise.”

She smirked. “Go on, then. Seal it. We’ll go to the owlery together.”

They left the common room, letter folded neatly in Harry’s pocket, and walked the long stone corridors in silence.

It was the kind of quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable—just companionable, the way things often were with Harry. Every so often, Hermione would glance at him and catch the frown on his face or the tight way he held his jaw. She didn’t press. He’d talk more if he needed to.

Outside, the sky had turned a flat silver, and wind swept across the grounds in short, sharp gusts. They passed a group of Ravenclaws near the Entrance Hall, a cluster of third-year Slytherins on the stairs, and a pair of Hufflepuffs off the stairwell to the Astronomy Tower.

Everywhere they went, conversations dwindled and glances turned scathing.

By the time they reached the stairs up to the owlery, the chatter of the castle had faded behind them.

The climb to the owlery was steep and smelled like old feathers and dried droppings, but Hermione didn’t mind. It was cold, too—wind whipping through the open, arched windows, pulling at her curls and Harry’s robes. She’d come along mostly to make sure Harry wouldn’t lose his temper if someone provoked him—but now felt a little guilty for assuming he would have. He had passed every sneer and whispered insult with impressive restraint.

She was just beginning to think the trip might pass without incident when they saw Ron.

He was standing near the far arch of the owlery, half-hidden by a carved beam, feeding owl treats to Pigwidgeon. The tiny owl hooted excitedly, wings flapping, before launching out the window with a sharp squeal of purpose.

Ron looked up.

And scowled.

“Responding to your fan mail?” he asked, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Harry tensed.

Hermione stepped in before he could reply, her tone razor-sharp. “Actually, he’s writing to Snuffles. But by all means, make jokes.”

Ron sneered. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was a family affair now.”

“Honestly, Ronald—just bugger off!” she snapped.

Ron’s jaw dropped at her out-of-character use of language, before splutterly angrily, “So—what—you’re just on his side now, are you?”

Hermione’s fingers curled at her sides. “There aren't any sides, Ronald. Just people who use their brains and people who throw tantrums!”

Harry still hadn’t said anything. He was staring at the stone floor, jaw clenched.

Ron shifted, jaw tight, eyes flashing. “Right. Well. Enjoy your letter. I’m sure it’s full of all the same bullshit you’ve been feeding Hermione.”

He looked at her then, bitter. “But what do you care, really? You’ll believe anything he says. Always have.”

A pause.

“Funny how you’re supposed to be the clever one.”

He turned on his heel and left, his footsteps echoing harshly against the stone spiral stairs.

For a moment, all Hermione could hear was the soft rustling of feathers and the wind whistling through the open arches.

She let out a slow, controlled breath. “I’m sorry that I lost my temper.”

Harry didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the open window that Pig had left from.

“He’s wrong, you know,” she added, more gently. “About everything.”

Harry’s throat worked. “He sounded pretty sure.”

Hermione took a small step closer. “He sounded jealous and scared and mean, which are not the same as being right.”

A beat passed. Harry gave a humorless little huff. “Still stings.”

“Of course it does.”

He finally looked at her, and she was relieved to see that—while his expression was drawn—his eyes weren’t glassy. Not like they’d been that morning.

“He thinks I’m lying. He thinks I wanted this.”

“He’s not thinking at all,” Hermione said. “He’s reacting.”

She touched his elbow. “But I know you, Harry. I know when you’re scared. And when you’re putting on a brave face. And when you’re telling the truth.”

Harry gave her a sideways glance. “How? How do you always know?”

“Because I actually pay attention to you.”

He smiled—small, but real.

“Let’s get this sent off,” he said at last.

Hermione nodded, following him to where Hedwig was perched.

Chapter Text

Harry

The days that followed were awful.

In Herbology, Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley outright refused to speak to Harry—even when they were paired together for repotting shrivelfigs. They passed the tools back and forth without making eye contact, communicating only through stiff gestures and awkward silences. The silence was worse than outright insults.

Even Professor Sprout, usually one of the more even-tempered teachers, seemed unusually brisk with him. When a snargaluff pod thumped Harry hard across the face—breaking his glasses and leaving his nose spouting blood—she’d barely glanced at him before telling him to clean up quickly and come back when he’d “pulled himself together.”

Malfoy, of course, was in rare form.

“Look here, Potter!” he shouted with a smug smile one morning before Potions. He flashed a badge that glowed with red letters.

At first they read Support Cedric Diggory – the Real Hogwarts Champion! but the second you pressed them, the message changed—flickering to POTTER STINKS in sickly green letters. Malfoy and his cronies wore them proudly.

Harry opened his mouth, furious, but Hermione cut in first—voice bored and polished like a blade.

“Did you have to pay someone to make those badges for you, Malfoy? Or did you finally master second-year charms?”

Malfoy flushed a rather satisfying shade of puce.

Through it all, Harry mostly kept his head down. Hermione walked with him more than usual—talked louder than necessary about unrelated topics whenever the hallways grew tense. He appreciated it, even if he couldn’t always bring himself to say so.

But the worst part—worse than the badges, worse than the silence, worse than sodding Malfoy—was still Ron.

Ron, who sat as far away as possible in every class and pretended Harry didn’t exist.

Ron, who pretended not to notice the badges at all.

Ron, who once would’ve hexed someone for less.

Less than a week had passed when Professor McGonagall intercepted him on his way out of Transfiguration, her expression unreadable.

“The champions are being called,” she said. “You’re needed for the weighing of the wands.”

And with that, Harry was whisked away.

He was ushered into a small room off the Entrance Hall where a gold-draped table had been set up, and the other Champions were already gathered: Fleur, Krum, and Cedric. Along the walls the judges, Headmasters, and some other unfamiliar adult witches and wizards (Harry suspected that they were in charge of some lighting and camera equipment strewn about the room) chatted quietly.

Harry froze a little when he saw Cedric.

Cedric smiled—easy and familiar. “Hey, Harry.”

Harry attempted to smile back, his face warming. “Hey.”

“Long time no see,” Cedric said, brow raised.

Harry shrugged, a bit awkwardly. “Yeah, well. My schedule mostly just involves hiding lately.”

Cedric huffed a quiet laugh.

Madame Maxime and Karkaroff were bickering over something in the corner, and Fleur was glancing at Cedric as though wanting to make conversation, but Cedric sidled closer to Harry instead.

“Holding up alright?” he asked under his breath.

Harry gave a noncommittal noise. “Define ‘alright.’”

Cedric hummed, gaze lingering on Harry for a moment, then he said, low and sincere, “Sorry about the badges.”

Harry blinked. “Oh—yeah. It’s fine.”

Cedric gave him a look. “It’s really not. They’re awful.”

Harry shrugged, trying for casual. “It’s not like you made them.”

“No,” Cedric agreed. “Still... sorry so many people are being such twats.”

Harry let out a sharp, startled bark of laughter. The sound bounced off the stone walls, drawing a few glances—Fleur looked vaguely annoyed, and Karkaroff scowled. Only Dumbledore looked amused.

But Harry hardly noticed.

Because Cedric was smiling as though he’d sought that laugh from Harry on purpose. His eyes crinkled at the corners, warm and pleased.

Harry, suddenly aware of how close they were standing, looked away and willed his face not to turn red like a beacon. The blushing was getting out of control. He focused very intently on a scorch mark on the flagstone floor and absolutely did not notice the way Cedric bounced on the balls of his feet as though he was rather chuffed.

Harry was saved from his own traitorous blood flow by the arrival of Mr. Ollivander, who glided into the room with a velvet case and a hungry glint in his eye.

The wizard was precisely as Harry remembered from Diagon Alley: pale eyes, white wisps of hair, and an unsettling kind of enthusiasm that made Harry feel like a particularly interesting specimen rather than a person.

“One at a time, please,” Ollivander said cheerfully, setting out his measuring instruments. “I must examine each wand to ensure it is in perfect working order before the first task.”

Fleur went first, handing over her wand with a sweep of her hand. Ollivander commented idly on the Veela hair core before approving it. Krum followed, stiff and silent, and Ollivander seemed reluctantly impressed by the work of some wandmaker named Gregorovitch. Cedric was third—his wand well-balanced and carved from ash, with a single unicorn hair at its core—and was one of Ollivander’s own; Ollivander was, unsurprisingly, very satisfied with it.

Then it was Harry’s turn.

He stepped forward and held out his wand. Ollivander’s fingers curled around it—

And immediately, the man’s brow furrowed.

“Oh,” he murmured, tilting the wand in the light. “Now that is... curious.”

Harry blinked. “What is?”

The old wandmaker didn’t answer right away. He turned the wand slowly, his pale eyes narrowing. “I remember this wand well. Eleven inches. Holly. Phoenix feather. A unique core, that one—especially considering its brother.”

Harry twitched at the mention of his wand’s connection to Voldemort, hoping desperately that Ollivander would refrain from saying more. 

“Yes, yes…” Ollivander went on, mostly to himself. “It was well-matched to you. Very well-matched. And yet…”

His brows drew together. “The allegiance has been severed.”

There was a pause.

Harry frowned. “I’m sorry—what does that mean?”

Ollivander gave him a thin, distracted smile. “It means, Mr. Potter, that though this wand once chose you, it no longer recognizes you as its master.”

That hit like a slap.

“Surely that’s not possible?” said Mr. Crouch, stepping forward from the corner of the room. Ludo Bagman bobbed beside him, blinking as though trying to catch up with the conversation.

“Wands can change allegiance,” Ollivander said calmly. “But only under rare and... specific circumstances.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do?” Bagman asked, looking at Harry with a strange amount of anxiety. “He can’t compete with a wand that’s not cooperating!”

“I recommend Mr. Potter purchase a replacement, as soon as possible,” Ollivander said. 

Harry’s stomach sank. “But—I’ve been using this wand. It still works fine!”

Although, as Harry said it, he realized that it wasn’t entirely true; he had been struggling in the last two months with basic spells. He’d just attributed it to lack of practice after the summer. 

“Yes, it certainly would with enough willpower,” Ollivander agreed vaguely. “But it’s resisting you, nonetheless. It would be unwise to enter the first task without addressing this issue.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

From the side of the room, Dumbledore stirred. “I believe that will suffice, Garrick,” he said quietly, though his tone carried authority. “I will ensure that Harry visits your shop this week to procure a replacement.”

The wandmaker bowed.

Harry met Dumbledore’s gaze and found something there that startled him.

Concern. And... confusion.

He didn’t like that. He wasn’t used to seeing Dumbledore unsure of anything.

“Well,” came Madame Maxime’s cool voice from behind Fleur. “Endless trouble, zis boy. Cheating ‘is way in and now—”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

He hadn’t asked for this. Hadn’t done anything. And now his wand suddenly didn’t trust him, and people were acting like he’d done it all on purpose—

“I didn’t put my name in the Goblet!” Harry snapped, surprising even himself.

He felt Cedric’s eyes on him.

Madame Maxime made a sound like a scoff and turned away.

“Thank you all,” said Dumbledore, addressing the Champions. “You may all go back to your lessons now—”

A man with the black camera jumped up and cleared his throat. “Photos, Dumbledore, photos!”

Bagman clapped his hands excitedly. “Yes, photos first!” 

The photographs took a long time.

Ollivander was made to stand behind each champion with their wand outstretched like a proud parent—which Harry found particularly strange in Krum and Fleur’s cases, given that the man hadn’t even crafted their wands. 

Krum brooded in every shot. Fleur refused to smile until her hair was perfectly adjusted each time. And Cedric… Cedric managed to look maddeningly at ease and perfect in every single photo.

The wizard with the camera kept muttering things to Harry like, “Hold still—no, a little to the left—champion energy, Mr. Potter, c’mon now—try not to squint like you’re being hexed…”

“Where’s Skeeter, anyway?” Bagman asked the photographer at one point, glancing around the room as though this ‘Skeeter’ person might be crouching behind a table. “She should be here for the interviews!”

The photographer shrugged. “Didn’t show. Some other reporter is going to owl the champions a list of questions instead.”

Bagman huffed with annoyance.

“All right,” the photographer announced, clapping his hands. “We’d like some individual and paired shots next. Krum first.”

The international Quidditch star stood stiffly. Then each of the remaining Champions were called forward.

Harry thought it was finally over until he heard:

“Potter and Diggory. Step in, boys—we need one of the two Hogwarts Champions.”

Harry stiffened.

Cedric moved easily into position, offering Harry a reassuring smile as he did. “C’mon, Harry. It’s just a photo.”

Harry stepped in beside him, trying not to look like he was calculating the distance between their shoulders.

The photographer squinted through his lens. “Bit closer, Mr. Potter. Can’t have a canyon of awkward between Hogwarts’ finest.”

Cedric huffed a laugh and bumped his arm gently into Harry’s.

“Relax,” he said under his breath, so only Harry could hear. “I don’t bite.”

Harry made a noise in the back of his throat and very pointedly did not look at Cedric’s mouth.

“Better,” the photographer said. “Now, both of you—bit more fire in the eyes. Less like you’re off to your own funeral.”

Cedric leaned in slightly—just enough to make it look casual to everyone else—and murmured to Harry, “You do realize they’re going to run this with a headline calling us either rivals or lovers, right?”

Harry’s brain slowed to a standstill.

“Personally, I’d prefer the lovers angle.”

He hardly registered the wave of heat crawling all the way to the tip of his nose. His eyes went wide, mouth slightly agape, as he turned to look up at Cedric—who, of course, looked maddeningly amused. Playful. Like what he’d said hadn’t been even remotely outrageous.

The camera flashed.

“All right, that’s a wrap!” the photographer called. “We’ll be in touch for follow-ups.”

Harry stepped away, blinking as the after-image of the flash burned across his vision. He turned just in time to see Cedric giving him a slightly too-knowing look.

“Sorry,” he said, tone utterly unapologetic. “You’re just… such an easy mark,” he teased with a wink. “Couldn’t resist.”

Harry blinked, a flare of indignation sparking in his chest as he processed what Cedric had said. “An easy mark?” he snapped.

Cedric bit his lower lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “Very. You’ve been floundering ever since the camera came out.”

Harry scowled, which only seemed to deepen Cedric’s amusement. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he took a slow step backward, clearly enjoying himself.

“Don’t worry,” Cedric added lightly. “You’re quite cute when you’re flustered—the photo will be excellent.”

Cedric was already gone by the time Harry remembered how to breathe. The words quite cute when you’re flustered had carved out permanent residence in his brain, looping on an endless reel that was equal parts humiliating and pleasant.

The next morning, Harry made the mistake of arriving to breakfast late.

The Daily Prophet had already been delivered. Copies rustled all along the Gryffindor table, but it was Seamus who spotted Harry first.

“Oi! Harry!”

Harry blinked sleepily as he sat down, frowning in confusion as Seamus slapped his copy of the Prophet in front of Harry—front page facing up.

There it was.

A massive photo of himself and Cedric standing shoulder to shoulder beneath the Triwizard Tournament banner. Cedric looked cool, confident, and devastatingly photogenic. Harry looked… like someone had whispered something shocking in his ear mid-shot. His mouth was slightly open, eyes wide, face visibly shadowed with a deep blush. 

And he was gaping up at Cedric like a smitten idiot.

The headline read:

CANDID PHOTO CAPTURES HOGWARTS’ BOY-WHO-LIVED BLUSHING BESIDE HOGWARTS’ GOLDEN-HAIRED HEARTTHROB

Harry’s soul briefly left his body.

“Bloody hell, Harry!” said Dean, snatching up the paper with glee. “What did Diggory say to you? You look like you just fell in love.”

“I did not fall in love!” Harry squawked, trying to swipe the paper back.

“I mean, you’re definitely swooning,” Seamus said unhelpfully.

“I wasn’t swooning!” Harry snapped, mortified.

Across the table, Parvati leaned over to Lavender and whispered, “I knew it. I knew it.”

Hermione, who’d been buttering toast like it had personally wronged her, muttered something under her breath that sounded like: “Daily bloody Prophet.”

Harry glanced at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, voice overly bright. “Toast?”

Before he could answer, Lavender whined, “Tell us, Harry! What did he say?” 

“Nothing!” Harry lied. “It was just the camera flash—”

“Sure it was,” drawled Dean. “I’m sure it had nothing to do with Diggory leaning in all close and whispering sweet nothings in your ear.”

Harry thought he might burst into flames.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed, finally taking pity on him. She grabbed her stack of buttered toast and took his arm to pull him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s go eat with the Ravenclaws.”

“Why the Ravenclaws?” Harry asked miserably as she pulled him away.

“Because they’re statistically less likely to comment on tabloid dribble,” she said.

They ended up at the far end of the Ravenclaw table, near the blonde third-year, Luna Lovegood, who Hermione had taken a liking to this year.

She was a bit odd, but a bit of a laugh, too.

Hermione slid onto the bench gracefully and began eating her toast. Harry followed, hunched low, still feeling the phantom heat of everyone’s eyes on him.

Luna sat across from them, her wand stuck behind one ear and a necklace of Butterbeer caps clinking softly as she chewed a boiled egg.

Harry had barely gotten his bearings—pouring himself a fresh glass of pumpkin juice—when Luna leaned in, wide-eyed. “I liked the photo,” she said serenely. “You looked as though you’d just been kissed.”

Harry choked on his juice.

Hermione squeaked beside him, then thumped the back of his chest.

Luna blinked slowly. “Oh. I’ve embarrassed you.”

Harry flushed deeper. “No—it’s fine—I just—”

She tilted her head, continuing in her musings, “I suppose that sometimes people blush when it’s hot out, too. And Cedric’s very warm. Like a Flare-Crowned Finch during mating season.”

Harry made a strangled sound.

Two seats down from Luna, Cho Chang—a rather beautiful Ravenclaw fifth year who Harry recognized from the Quidditch pitch—lowered her goblet of pumpkin juice with a sharp clink and gave Luna a look that could have flayed a mandrake.

Harry watched with discomfort and utter confusion.

“Maybe the Ravenclaw table wasn’t my best idea…” Hermione suddenly muttered under her breath.

“You’ve always had such a... vivid imagination, Luna.”

Luna blinked at her serenely. “No, not really.”

Cho ignored her, turning to Harry with a pinched smile on her face. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in what she says. Luna once told Roger Davies he had a thestral-shaped soul.”

“He does,” Luna said mildly. “He just doesn’t like flying.”

Hermione snorted behind her cup of tea. 

“Still,” Cho pressed on. “I wouldn’t read too much into how Cedric treats people in front of a camera.”

Harry frowned slightly. “What do you mean by that?”

“Cedric just likes a laugh, that’s all,” she said, eyes sharp.

Harry felt a rush of sickly embarrassment pool in his gut—somehow different from the embarrassment he had been feeling for the last ten minutes. There was something cutting beneath her words that Harry didn’t quite understand—but Hermione definitely did. Her cup clinked a little too hard as she set it down.

“Come on, Harry,” Hermione suddenly said, tugging his sleeve. “We’re going to be late.”

“For what?” he muttered, feeling suddenly miserable on a whole new level.

Hermione didn’t answer right away. She just took Harry firmly by the arm and led him out of the Great Hall with single-minded purpose. Once they were in the Entrance Hall, she glanced left and right down the corridor, then sighed.

“C’mon,” she said, steering him toward a staircase leading down below the Great Hall.

Harry blinked. “The kitchens?”

“I’m not feeding you toast crumbs and tension for breakfast,” she muttered, already tickling the pear.

The portrait swung open and the warmth of the Hogwarts kitchens rushed over them—baking bread, sizzling bacon, and the gentle clatter of dozens of enthusiastic house-elves preparing for the next meal. Several of them scurried over as soon as they spotted Harry and Hermione, ushering them to a small corner table.

Within moments, a full English breakfast was laid out before Harry—eggs, beans, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, toast, and enough sausage to feed a family of five.

And it was served in blissful, blessed silence.

Harry poked at his eggs with his fork.

Hermione sipped her fresh cup of tea and gave him a look. “It’ll all blow over in no time, Harry. They’ll find a new headline by tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured half-heartedly.

He let a piece of toast go soggy in the yolk before glancing up. “What do you think Cho meant, back there?”

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh and set her cup down. She looked at him fondly. “Oh, Harry. You’re really awful at reading people.”

Harry frowned. “I am not—!”

“You are,” she said flatly, a smile quirking her lips. “Cho was jealous, Harry.”

“Of what?” he asked, genuinely baffled.

“Of you,” Hermione said, as though it were obvious. “Or more precisely, of Cedric giving you attention.”

Harry’s mouth opened, then closed. “Oh… are Cedric and Cho…?”

“Together? No. But I’ve heard that they’re childhood friends, and she’s obviously interested in him. And then you go and show up in a front-page photo blushing at him like he hung the bloody moon.”

Harry groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “I wasn’t blushing.”

“You absolutely were.”

He let out a muffled, miserable noise into his palms.

After a beat, he straightened and said, “I sort of thought… I mean… Cedric was teasing me, yeah, but… I thought maybe it was because he liked me.”

Hermione smiled, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“Not liked liked,” Harry added quickly, face heating. “Just… I dunno. As a friend. Or someone who could be a friend.”

Hermione nodded. “And now?”

Harry looked down at his plate. “Now I can’t stop thinking about it. What if it was the other kind of teasing?”

Hermione reached out and clutched his hand. “Harry. That didn’t look like cruel teasing to me.”

He hesitated, then asked in a tone that failed to hide his hopefulness. “How can you tell?”

“Because I’ve been teased cruelly,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t make you blush. It makes you small.”

Harry blinked. 

Hermione gave him a half-smile. “Cedric doesn’t strike me as cruel. A bit cocky, maybe. But not mean.”

Harry gave a shrug, though a smile bloomed on his face unprompted. After a moment of silence, he picked up his toast and took a bite.

Harry had been hiding in the library for most of the afternoon and evening, buried behind a Charms textbook he wasn’t really reading. When Madam Pince finally announced closing time, he packed up slowly, dragging his feet into the cool, low-lit corridor.

He wasn’t five steps down the hall when someone called, “Harry! Wait up!”

He turned—heart working double-time—and saw Cedric jogging toward him, bag slung over one shoulder, a light flush on his cheeks from the exertion.

“Hey,” Cedric said, slightly breathless. “Got a minute?”

Harry nodded, trying not to think about how the Hufflepuff looked even more handsome when slightly out of breath. “Er… sure. Yeah.”

Cedric glanced around—there were only a few stragglers in the corridor—and gently guided Harry toward an empty alcove near the window with a (thoroughly distracting) hand on Harry’s elbow. Cedric’s voice dropped low.

“You saw the Prophet, right?”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Unfortunately.”

Cedric gave a wry half-smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… I didn’t think they’d actually run it. Especially not on the front page.” He winced. “I feel kind of bad now.”

Harry swallowed. “Why?”

Cedric shrugged, suddenly looking a bit sheepish. “I was just trying to get you to relax. No offense, but… you sort of looked like you were about to be sick.” He cleared his throat before adding, “I didn’t mean to make a spectacle of you, though.”

Harry couldn’t help the self-deprecating huff that escaped him. “You didn’t. I made a spectacle of myself.”

“No,” Cedric said, shaking his head. “I’m the one who leaned in and said something ridiculous.”

Harry forced a small smile. “Yeah. Ridiculous.”

Cedric’s brow ticked up. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“It’s fine,” Harry said quickly, with a brittle little laugh. “It was ridiculous. I looked like a stunned garden gnome next to you.”

Cedric blinked at him.

There was a pause—long enough to be uncomfortable. Then Cedric said, sounding truly perplexed, “You really don’t see yourself the way other people do, do you?”

Harry gaped at him, startled. Cedric’s expression was unreadable—eyes serious, head tilted just slightly. It was like he was trying to figure out a particularly stubborn charm.

Before Harry could think of a response, footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Cho Chang appeared, arms crossed, her expression cool as she took in the sight of them—close together, half in shadow.

Cedric turned, an easy smile gracing his features. “Hey, Cho.”

Her voice was light, but the edges were sharp. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere.”

Her eyes settled on Harry, and he felt an unwarranted guilt prickle down his spine. “I should—er—go,” he mumbled.

Cedric’s brows knitted together in confusion. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” Harry said quickly. “I’ve got—stuff. I’ll—er—see you around.”

He ducked his head and walked off, pulse hammering. Behind him, he thought he heard Cedric murmur, “What’s going on with you?” but he didn’t stick around to hear more.

Chapter Text

Hermione

At first, Hermione was merely confused.

(And maybe slightly concerned.)

Harry had come back from the wand weighing nervous, explaining that Ollivander said his wand’s allegiance had been severed. Hermione had stared at him, uncomprehending. Severed? That didn’t just happen. Not without reason. Not unless something—or someone—had won its allegiance from Harry.

Then the real shock: Dumbledore was arranging for Harry to go to Ollivander’s to find a new wand.

That set her pacing.

She wore a track in the Gryffindor common room carpet while pretending to read. Every so often she’d snap her book shut and open a different one, as though this were a research problem and not the sudden unraveling of magical law.

What had she done to the timeline? Had sending her memories back in time destabilized something? Had she missed a variable? Was Harry’s wand rejecting him, or—

The portrait hole creaked open.

Harry stepped through, head down, bag slung over one shoulder. He looked more confused than upset, which somehow made it worse.

Hermione was on her feet in an instant.

“Well?” she asked.

Harry shrugged. “None of them worked.”

“None?” Her stomach twisted.

“Ollivander said he wants to try again in a few days. But—yeah. Nothing felt right.” He gave her a weak, apologetic smile. “Guess I’m an acquired taste.”

He disappeared up the boys’ staircase before she could ask anything else.

She stood frozen for several seconds, heart thudding against her ribs. Then she sat. Then stood again.

And then, like a cursed lock clicking into place, the realization came.

Hermione sank onto the nearest couch as the world narrowed to one awful, spiraling truth:

The wand wasn’t rejecting Harry for someone else.

It was rejecting this version of Harry.

Because his real allegiance—his deepest connection—was already claimed.

By the Elder Wand.

By Death.

Hermione pressed her palms to her eyes, fingers trembling.

What the absolute fuck.

He didn’t even have the bloody Elder Wand yet! It was still tucked safely in Dumbledore’s wand holster, parading about the castle like it weren’t some mythic magical object. And yet... it knew. Across time, across space, across a rewritten future—it still knew.

Because Harry had mastered death.

And now no other wand would accept him.

Hermione’s breath caught. Her hands fell limply into her lap.

He’s still the Master of Death.

Even after everything. Even after they’d reset the timeline. His strange relationship with the Deathly Hallows had followed Harry back.

And now?

Now she had to find a way for her fourteen-year-old friend to face a dragon with a wand that wasn’t loyal. Could he even manage to summon a broom across the Hogwarts grounds like last time? Or was the only wand capable of doing that for Harry tucked up the Headmaster’s sleeve?

Hermione quickly determined that getting the Holly wand to summon a broom a kilometer away was not in the realm of possibilities for Harry this time around.

Which meant coming up with an entirely different strategy. 

Ideally one that required minimal wandwork.

The library was nearly empty after dinner—it was a Friday, after all. There were just a handful of NEWTs-level students at work; between them and Hermione, there was only the occasional rustle of pages, the scratch of quill on parchment, and the soft creak of shifting weight in wobbly chairs. Hermione was buried in a fortress of open books, flipping pages with increasing desperation.

There was no mention of Parseltongue in relation to dragons anywhere. Not in Fantastic Beasts, not in the expanded Herpetological Compendium, not even in the more obscure pre-reform texts on dragon harvesting. She’d already scoured Thrice-Cursed Tongues and Their Origins (useless), and was now elbow-deep in a brittle, handwritten diary written by an ancestor of Salazar Slytherin.

Nothing. 

She muttered under her breath and shoved another book aside. It landed with a thud.

“Researching snakes, Granger?”

Hermione stiffened.

She looked up to see Theodore Nott standing on the opposite side of her study table, one brow raised, his schoolbag slung lazily over one shoulder.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I’m busy, Nott.”

“I can see that.” He stepped closer, gaze flicking over the titles scattered in front of her. “You do know that dragons aren’t snakes, don’t you?”

She closed the nearest volume with a snap. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Nott ignored her. He plucked a spine-bound codex from her pile and turned it over in his hands. “Serpentes Sapientiae. Bit basic.” He glanced at her. “There’s a restricted section with better sources for this kind of thing.”

She frowned. “I’m not cleared for the restricted section.”

“I didn’t think you were.” His eyes gleamed. “But I am.”

Hermione stilled.

Nott smiled. “Want to make a trade?”

“I’m not trading anything with you.”

He shrugged. “Shame. I’m sure whatever you’re researching this for is important.”

“I’m not—” She exhaled sharply. “It’s theoretical.”

“Mm.” Nott slid the codex back onto the pile with exaggerated care. “Well. If you change your mind, meet me back here tonight.”

Hermione scoffed, certain that she would not be taking him up on that offer.

But after reading another dozen worthless journals… she started reconsidering.

And by the time curfew had passed and her dormmates were asleep, she found herself still fully dressed, sneaking out of the portrait hole.

She hadn’t even told Harry—which meant she had no map or invisibility cloak to aid her. She just dropped a disillusionment on herself, silenced her feet, and hoped for the best.

The rest of the castle was quiet, swathed in the hush that always came just after midnight. 

When she reached the Restricted Section of the library, Nott was already there. He was leaning against a nearby shelf like he hadn’t moved in hours, a faint smirk playing at his mouth.

“You’re late,” he said with faux-indignation.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You didn’t specify a time.”

He merely shrugged, pushing off the shelf with slow, easy grace.

“So what are we searching for? Snake-themed bedtime anthologies?”

Hermione didn’t rise to the bait. “I need the east shelf on magical creature cognition and the oldest codex on wand theory available.”

Nott whistled low, already unlocking the wrought iron entry gate with his charmed pass. She ignored him, slipping inside without another word. He followed, a silent shadow behind her.

“All these sudden research projects…” he murmured casually. “Perhaps you’re trying to impress a certain golden-haired champion?”

Hermione stopped short, turning toward him in confusion. “What does Cedric have to do with this?”

Nott’s mouth quirked. “Absolutely nothing. Just making observations.”

She continued perusing the shelves. 

“So,” he whispered, his lips far closer to her ear than expected. “We never discussed what I get in return for helping you.” 

For some reason, his phrasing made her stomach flutter.

She didn’t turn around. “A bit late to make demands—you already let me in.”

“Ah, how very Slytherin of you.” 

She hummed noncommittally, fingers trailing along the spines of a high shelf. “If you’re regretting the deal, feel free to take it up with Madam Pince.”

“Oh, I doubt that will be necessary.” His voice dropped lower—turned more pointed. “I’m betting you’ll participate if I ask for a… creative form of compensation.”

There was a pause—just long enough for the silence to feel charged—and then, before she could stop herself, Hermione spun around and blurted out, “Like a kiss?”

The words hit the air with humiliating clarity.

Nott blinked.

Then he arched one brow, slowly, and the corner of his mouth pulled into something that could only be described as deeply entertained.

“A kiss?” he repeated, tone light and unmistakably pleased. “Merlin, Granger. And here I thought you were the sensible one.”

Her face went hot. “I didn’t—! I meant—! You were acting all—”

He held up a hand, mock-solemn. “Please. I’m a gentleman. I’d never demand such a thing in exchange for library access.”

“But—you—!”

Nott gave a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over his heart. “So much for my reputation. Imagine, Theodore Nott, reduced to extorting kisses from flustered Gryffindors in the Restricted Section.”

Hermione scowled. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I really am.”

She crossed her arms, trying to gather the scraps of her dignity. “So if that’s not your price—what is?”

He shrugged. “A game.”

Hermione stared, suspicious. “What kind of game?”

He leaned just a bit closer. “A game of questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

Nott’s smile twitched like he was biting back something smug. “Nothing scandalous. Just questions about each other—our interests. One for one. You ask, I answer. I ask, you answer.”

“That’s not a game,” she said flatly. “That’s an interrogation.”

“Ah, but the fun part is you get to interrogate me, too.”

She hesitated, arms still crossed. “What’s stopping you from asking something wildly inappropriate?”

“My reputation as a gentleman, of course.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

Nott tapped a finger against his lip, as though deep in thought. “I suppose we can set rules. No questions about... romantic histories. Or secrets that aren’t ours to share. Or…” —he looked at her intently with his sapphire eyes— “time travel.”

Hermione froze.

Her brain, usually so quick and ruthless in its logic, simply... stalled.

Time travel.

He’d said it like it was just the absurd third item in a list of half-serious rules.

But his eyes—deep and sharp and far too knowing—held her gaze like he was watching for tremors beneath the surface.

How did he know? Was he just guessing? Was this some sort of test?

“I think,” she said evenly, trying to hide her internal panic, “those seem like reasonable rules.”

Nott tilted his head, just slightly, before smirking at her. “Excellent.”

“But whatever’s said tonight doesn’t leave this room,” she blurted, her heart suddenly racing.

He held her gaze for a moment, then nodded once, unfazed. “Of course.”

Hermione’s thoughts spun a mile a minute as she waited, watching him purse his lips as he considered his first question. 

Her chest was tight with a mix of adrenaline and disbelief. Had she completely lost the plot? What was she even doing?

Nott finally leaned forward slightly, expression unreadable. “Alright then. First question.” His gaze was steady. “Why are you researching a combination of snakes, Parseltongue, and dragons?”

Hermione bit her lower lip.

She could lie. She should lie. But something about the way he was watching her—sharp, expectant, patient—made her feel like he already knew the answer. 

And, if she was being honest with herself, she wanted to tell him.

“Because the first task is dragons,” she said quietly. “And Harry speaks Parseltongue.”

His eyes flashed with something like satisfaction. “Huh. I wasn’t sure you’d be honest.”

She flushed, feeling completely out of sorts and questioning her own sanity. Without another word, she spun toward the nearest shelf and began grabbing books—any that looked even remotely relevant. Magical creature cognition, draconic magical theory—whatever, she’d figure out which were useful once she had them open. She fled to the small round table in the corner and dropped them all with a soft thud.

Nott followed at a measured pace, slipping into the seat across from her. He leaned back like he belonged there, one long finger tapping a slow, syncopated rhythm on the table’s surface.

She opened one of the books and tried to focus, flipping pages with more force than necessary.

The off-beat tapping continued.

It got under her skin fast.

She slammed her book shut, snapping, “Why are you even interested in what I’m researching?”

“Is that your question?”

“Yes, that’s my bloody question, Nott!”

He looked completely unbothered. “Because you’ve been in my dreams for the last two months,” he said simply.

Hermione stared at him.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

He tsked. “That’s another question, Granger. You’ll have to wait your turn.”

She let out a noise of pure frustration and shoved one of the books toward him before grumbling, “Make yourself useful and look for any references to dragon communication.”

Nott chuckled, obliging her without complaint. Some time passed with only the sound of flipping pages.

And then.

“My second question,” Nott announced, his tone almost bored. “Why were you stalking Diggory?”

“I was not—” Hermione objected, flustered. “—stalking. I was just… observing.”

Nott turned a page with exaggerated disinterest. “Ah, yes. The classic ‘academic surveillance’ defense. Entirely reasonable.”

“It is reasonable,” she snapped, cheeks coloring.

He gave her an amused once-over. “If you say so. Though I’m curious what, exactly, one learns by loitering on covered bridges and taking notes on a Hufflepuff’s post-practice shower schedule.”

Hermione dropped her face into her hands. “I wasn’t—I’m not—ugh!”

When she looked up again, she saw the mirth in Nott’s expression and scowled at him.

“I’m not being a creep!” she hissed at him. “I need to know his schedule, and it’s for his own good, alright?”

Nott studied her in silence, clearly dissatisfied with her vague answer.

Then, slowly, he nodded once. “Alright.”

Hermione cleared her throat, eager to shift the subject. “My turn.”

She flipped a page in her current book with unnecessary force. “What kind of dreams?”

Nott didn't answer right away. His eyes dropped back to his own book, but he wasn’t reading anymore.

“Dreams about what’s to come,” he said finally. “Within the next year, mostly.” 

Hermione gaped. “Like visions—”

Nott raised a brow.

She caught herself with a huff.

He smiled faintly, then leaned back in his chair.

“My turn again,” he said, tone shifting, playful now. “Let’s see…”

He made a show of thinking, gaze flicking briefly to her curls, her frown, the ink-stained smudge on her left hand.

“If you had to kiss one person in this castle,” Nott said casually, “who would it be?”

Hermione squirmed, a traitorous flutter wreaking havoc in her chest.

“That’s a question about romance—it’s off-limits.”

“We agreed that romantic histories were off-limits,” Nott corrected smoothly.

She glared at him, opening her mouth—then closing it again.

Because the truth was complicated.

Last time—at this age—the answer would have been Ron.

Or, for a brief and confusing stretch, Viktor.

But Ron… Ron was a landslide of old wounds and newer ones still forming. Lavender Brown. Cruel words. Abandonment. She wasn’t even certain that she wanted to forgive him this time around. Kissing him was the farthest thing from her mind.

And Viktor… well. He’d been kind. But they’d been better as friends. The idea of ever kissing him again felt weird; like how kissing Harry would feel.

No, when it came down to it, she wasn’t the same girl as the first time around. She wasn’t harboring any school girl crushes—

Her eyes flicked upward, briefly—traitorously—to the boy across from her as she thought that.

Nott was watching her, naturally. Chin in hand, looking smug.

She buried that train of thought as deep as she could manage—she was not about to give him the satisfaction.

That would be mad. Reckless. Mortifying.

Besides, it wasn’t even true. 

(Probably.)

Her mind flicked through other options, trying to piece together something honest that didn’t feel absolutely mortifying to admit. 

And then—like a match struck in a dark room—an answer bloomed in her mind. Not romantic, just… satisfying.

A smile curled at the edges of her lips before she could stop it—slow, vindictive, and deeply smug.

“Draco Malfoy,” she declared, with far too much pleasure.

Nott blinked. “Dra—what?”

“If I had to kiss someone in this castle,” she said, voice perfectly pleasant, “it would be Draco Malfoy.”

Nott’s expression twisted—a combination of disgust and annoyance flickering. “You’re having me on.”

“Oh no,” Hermione said, eyes gleaming. “Can you imagine it? The look on his face afterward? The horror?” She leaned forward slightly, savoring every word. “He could never claim that he had never wanted a Mudblood again.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Nott let out a bark of laughter so loud she nearly fell out of her chair.

“Shhh!” she hissed, eyes flying toward the entry gate. “You’ll wake the whole castle!”

He waved a hand lazily, still grinning. “Relax. I silenced the door when we came in.”

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, pulse still racing.

“Ruthless,” he said, clearly delighted. “I should have known.”

She smirked. 

Then she narrowed her eyes—determined.

“Next question,” she said slowly, deliberately. “What are three things you’ve dreamed of about this upcoming year that included me?”

Nott gave her an approving nod. “You’re learning,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair. 

She waited, heart pounding.

Nott shrugged lightly, counting them off on his fingers.

“One. I saw you at the bottom of the Black Lake, tied up with three others. You were surrounded by Merfolk. The first time, it was you, Ronald Weasley, Cho Chang, and a little blonde girl who I didn’t recognize.”

Hermione’s blood went cold.

Nott continued, tone almost detached, as though describing someone else’s memory. “Two. Same setting, same Merfolk—but some of the people had changed. It was you again, and the little blonde girl. But instead of Weasley and Chang, there was a middle-aged witch and another little girl with black hair and a long nose—both unfamiliar to me.”

Hermione stared at him, frozen. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

Those weren’t just dreams.

They were glimpses of the future in both timelines.

He had seen them. Both.

Nott leaned forward a little, observing her reaction like he was cataloguing it for later. 

Hermione wet her lips, trying to think, to breathe . But her mind was racing, already fitting the puzzle pieces together faster than she could handle.

“And for dream number three…” 

He trailed off for effect, letting the silence stretch between them.

Then a slow, wicked smile curled his lips. “You and I. Dancing.”

Hermione blinked.

“Your hair was—miraculously—tame. You were wearing blue. I think it was snowing. And you looked…” He tilted his head. “Happy. Ridiculously so.”

She was at a complete loss for words.

Nott grinned. “That one was definitely my favorite.”

After gaping stupidly for what could have been hours, Hermione murmured, “So…we go to the Yule Ball together.”

Nott’s smile deepened. “I said that we dance at the Yule Ball together, Granger.”

She flushed, instantly regretting her phrasing.

“Unless,” he added, all faux innocence, “that was an invitation?”

“No!” she said, far too loudly.

Nott put a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Brutal, Granger. Couldn’t let a guy down easy?”

Hermione squeaked, “I think this game is over.”

He smirked, utterly unbothered. “Aw, no lightning round to end it?”

“Absolutely not. ”

He laughed under his breath and returned to his book, still wearing that maddeningly pleased expression. “Fine. But next time I get the first question.”

She didn’t reply.

But her cheeks were still pink ten minutes later, and she made no rush to leave even after she found the information she’d been searching for.

Chapter Text

Harry

The Black Lake was beginning to ice over at the edges.

Harry sat cross-legged near the shore, watching the frost creep along the rocks, Sirius’ letter crushed loosely in his hand. The wind stung his cheeks and nose, but he didn’t move. Guilt did a fine job keeping him warm.

He reread the letter again, though he could recite it by now:

Harry,

I’m not getting a flat in Hogsmeade. Too traceable. But don’t worry, I’ll find a way to stay close.

Watch your back, and write to me if anything else happens.

—Snuffles

It was the most Sirius thing imaginable—chaotic, protective, and vague. And all Harry could think was I shouldn’t have told him. He should’ve pretended that everything was fine.

“Hot cocoa?”

Harry looked up. Hermione stood over him, a knit scarf around her neck and a thermos in each hand. She sat down beside him without waiting for an answer, muttered a warming charm around them both, and passed over a mug.

“It’s not your fault, Harry,” she said abruptly, unprompted.

He opened his mouth. “But—”

“Nope. Uh-uh.” She sipped her cocoa primly.

He scowled. “You can’t just—”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

It startled a laugh out of him, which was probably the point.

For a minute they just sat, wind howling past them and steam curling from their sweet, milky drinks.

Harry stared off at the Durmstrang ship. “The first task is in two weeks.”

Hermione hummed. “How are you feeling?”

He shrugged. “It’s not like I know what I’ll be facing. Hard to know what I feel.”

Hermione didn’t answer right away.

She took a long sip of her cocoa, eyes fixed on a spot in the trees beyond the lake, and made a faint, squeaky sound. Her fingers tightened slightly around her thermos.

Harry glanced at her sidelong. “Hermione?”

“Hmm?”

“You just made your I-know-something-I-shouldn’t-know noise.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. That little squeaky chirp. It’s the same one you made in third year when you saw McGonagall’s lesson plans by accident.”

Hermione gave him a bland look. “I think your trauma’s made you paranoid.”

“Probably, but hardly relevant right now,” Harry said flatly. “So what is it?”

“Nothing!”

Harry set his cocoa down. “You do know something.”

“Harry…”

He turned to face her fully, brows drawn tight. “Hermione, the first task is in two weeks. I don’t know what it is, I don’t have a plan, and I don’t even have a wand that likes me. So unless it’s a knitting competition, I’m screwed. If there’s something you know, even a hint, I need to hear it—rules be damned.”

Hermione winced.

“Spill.”

She exhaled, breath fogging the cold air. “Fine. I overheard Hagrid talking to Flitwick—accidentally! I was walking past Greenhouse Two. They were discussing setting up some sort of… containment field. In the forest.”

Harry blinked. “Okay?”

“For… dragons,” she added in a voice so small he nearly couldn’t hear it.

He stared at her.

Hermione rushed on. “I don’t know for sure, obviously. But it makes a kind of sense. They can’t expect you to fight one—it’s probably more about… avoiding. Dodging. Distraction. The first task is about nerve, right?”

He kept staring.

Hermione gave him a tight smile. “At least you’ve seen one up close before?”

Harry dropped his head into his hands. “Oh Gods. I’m going to die.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

“No, really. We should just make the funeral arrangements now.”

She flicked him hard on the ear.

“Ow!”

“That’s not funny!”

“It sort of is.”

Hermione groaned dramatically, flopping backward onto the brittle grass. “Honestly, I never thought I’d say this, but—I wish Norbert were still around.”

Harry looked at her like she’d lost her mind.

She waved him off. “Just saying, if we had a dragon on hand, you could practice! Brainstorm!”

Harry snorted. “Sure. Great. Practice dying ahead of schedule.”

She flicked him again.

“I mean it, Harry. Just think how much we don’t know about dragons—for all we know, you could just speak Parseltongue at it and walk right by.”

Harry blinked. “You think dragons understand Parseltongue?”

Hermione shrugged, then said in an odd tone, “Maybe. I’ll do some research.” She cleared her throat. “But the bigger problem is what you’d even say. ‘Excuse me, mighty fire-breathing terror, I’d like to pass through your murder zone untoasted, thanks?’”

Harry snorted.

Hermione looked pleased with herself. “Two weeks is plenty of time to devise a strategy—to research.”

Harry glanced sideways at her, a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t deserve you.”

“No,” she agreed, shoving him. “But you’ve got me anyway.”

They sat there until their drinks went lukewarm and the sharp winds bit through their warming charm. But Harry’s chest felt lighter.

They still had two weeks. And he had Hermione.

The Hufflepuff team was just wrapping up on the pitch as Harry made his way down from the castle. Officially, Quidditch was canceled for the year, but some of the teams were still meeting for regular practices to keep in shape. 

Cedric called up a few notes to one of the younger Chasers, then dismounted with the kind of casual grace that made Harry envious.

Cedric spotted Harry almost immediately and smiled—wide and unguarded.

Harry’s stomach did something entirely unhelpful.

Parting ways with his teammates, Cedric started walking in Harry’s direction. Harry tried very hard not to notice how sweat made Cedric’s hair curl at the edges. Or how he wore his Quidditch kit like he was starring in a photoshoot. 

Or how he seemed eager to talk to Harry.

“Stalking me?” Cedric teased.

“What? No—I wasn’t—”

Harry snapped his mouth shut, watching Cedric’s brows creep slowly upward in amusement. He scowled, grumbling, “Not everyone’s trailing after you just because you look like some Greek hero come to life, you know.”

​​There was a beat of silence.

Then Cedric’s lips twitched. “Greek hero, huh?”

Harry’s face heated. “That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

Cedric’s grin was positively indecent. “No, no, by all means. Feel free to elaborate. Achilles? Hercules?”

Harry made a strangled noise. “Merlin—stop!”

“Adonis?” Cedric offered helpfully.

“I’m leaving!”

“Harry—wait!” Cedric reached out, laughing as he caught Harry’s sleeve. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry. I’ll stop teasing.”

Harry glared at him, certain he was still pink.

Cedric smiled—gentler this time. “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year.”

Harry bit his lip, unsure of how to respond to that.

Cedric’s eyes flicked down, lingering a half-second too long—and then he reached up, featherlight, to brush a single finger from the tip of Harry’s nose to his left ear.

“You look like you’ve been out in the cold too long,” he murmured, voice low.

Harry froze, blinking owlishly up at Cedric’s amber eyes as more blood rushed to his face against his will. 

Cedric’s finger lingered for a moment longer, warm against the chill, before he dropped his hand and stepped back just slightly.

“Sorry,” he said, his tone sheepish—though the glint in his eyes said otherwise. “That might’ve been worse than the teasing.”

“No,” Harry said quickly, voice cracking. “I mean—no, it’s fine. Not worse. Definitely not worse.”

Cedric raised a brow, clearly fighting a smile. 

The space between them buzzed with something unspoken. Not quite awkward, not quite comfortable—just enough to make Harry’s heart hammer and breath catch.

Then, with a small chuckle, Cedric asked, “So… if you didn’t come down here to make comparisons to Greek heros, what brought you out?”

Harry swallowed. The warmth in his cheeks cooled fast.

“Right. Er—actually, I came to… warn you.”

“Warn me?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “About the first task.”

Cedric’s expression sobered instantly. “Oh.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I know that I shouldn’t know anything, but Hermione overheard some things. And it’s absolutely mad if she’s right—and so—”

Cedric set his broom down, stepping closer. “Tell me.”

Harry swallowed. “Dragons.”

There was a beat of silence. Wind rushed across the pitch.

Cedric blinked. “Like… baby ones?”

“No. Big ones, we think. Full-grown with teeth and wings and everything.”

“Well,” Cedric said after a long moment. “That’s… terrifying.”

Harry gave a tight smile. “Yeah. Thought you might appreciate the heads-up.”

Cedric looked at him seriously, still a bit breathless. “Yeah. Thanks.” He shook his head as though to gather his bearings. “What do they expect us to…?”

“Get around them, maybe?” Harry wrinkled his nose. “I dunno.”

For a moment, Cedric didn’t respond. His amber eyes just lingered on how Harry had scrunched up his face.

“Cedric?” Harry prompted, confused.

Cedric blinked, startled. “Sorry. Just—trying to imagine you outmaneuvering a dragon.”

Harry huffed. “Cheers.”

Cedric’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Or this could just be a clever way of psyching me out.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Right. My grand plan: make you so nervous you don’t show up.”

Cedric laughed. “Effective.”

Their eyes caught for a second longer than necessary, and Harry looked away with a nervous flutter in his gut.

Cedric smiled—soft, genuine—and glanced toward the path leading back to the castle.

“Well,” he said, picking up his broom. “Guess I should hit the showers.”

“Right. Yeah,” Harry said too quickly. “I should, er… go. Too.”

Cedric nodded, but then paused. “Harry?”

Harry looked up.

“Thanks again,” Cedric said, stepping close enough to make Harry’s heart go mad. His hand reached out briefly—just to lightly touch Harry’s forearm. “That was really decent of you.”

Harry blinked at him.

And before he could form words—or even thoughts—Cedric gave him a small, lopsided smile and backed away.

“See you around.”

Harry stood rooted to the spot, watching him go, mind blank and face hot.

It was, Harry thought bitterly, a kind of psychological torture to make the Champions attend classes on the morning of the first task.

He’d barely heard a word anyone said. Professor Flitwick’s demonstration of Mirror Spells had sounded like it was being piped through a fog of cotton. The only thing he’d taken in all day was Hermione’s expression—pinched and pale, like she was holding herself together via sheer will.

And now here he was, pushing aside his half-eaten lunch as Professor McGonagall appeared beside the Gryffindor table, voice low and urgent.

“Potter, the champions have to come down onto the grounds now. You have to get ready for the first task.”

His heart fluttered like the wings of a snitch. He rose and followed her out, vaguely aware of the weight of every eye in the Great Hall trailing after him.

McGonagall said all the right things—don’t panic, you’ll be fine, we’ve got Healers on-hand—and he just nodded numbly. Her hand was firm on his shoulder, grounding him, and he was absurdly grateful for it.

A tent loomed into view, pitched just beyond the edge of the forest. McGonagall gave a pinched smile and nodded before leaving Harry at the entrance flap. He took a breath and stepped inside.

Cedric was already there, pacing. His head snapped up at Harry’s appearance, relief flooding his face.

“Hey—” Cedric moved toward him, voice low. “Are you alright?”

Harry gave a tight nod. “As much as any of us can be.”

Cedric’s brow creased, and his voice dropped to the faintest whisper as he asked, “And you’re feeling good about casting Sonorus? With your wand, I mean.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll manage.”

It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. He had practiced countless times with Hermione, after all, and had had few issues. But, occasionally, his wand was temperamental—requiring a lot of what Harry thought of as ‘oomf’ to get the desired results. Harry didn’t have the heart to admit that to Cedric now, though—not when he looked so sincerely concerned and had his own dragon to worry about. Cedric had already done enough, checking in with Harry periodically over the last two weeks to offer help and give advice on the plan Hermione had helped him craft.

Cedric didn’t press, though something in his expression made Harry think that he wanted to.

Before anything else could be said, Bagman burst in, all teeth and artificial cheer. He clapped his hands and started explaining the procedure, shaking a small purple sack in his hand like it was full of candy rather than nightmares.

“You’ll each select a model of the dragon you’re about to face! Different varieties—just for fun!” Bagman beamed, oblivious to the tension rolling off every champion in the room. “Oh, and your task is to collect the golden egg!”

Fleur went first and drew a Welsh Green. Krum followed with a grunt and pulled out a Chinese Fireball.

Cedric’s hand reached in, calm and steady. He drew a Swedish Short-Snout.

Then it was Harry’s turn.

His fingers closed around cool metal. When he drew it out, a tiny Hungarian Horntail unfurled its wings and snapped its jaws with a metallic hiss.

Harry stared at it, the weight of dread settling cold and heavy in his gut. He suddenly, viscerally regretted not having gone to see the dragons with Hagrid two days prior. Hermione had insisted it wasn’t necessary—that they could use that time more wisely to practice with his stubborn wand. Now, though, looking down at the vicious glint of those tiny silver teeth, he was suddenly reconsidering that logic.

Just how big was this thing going to be?

Harry stood back as Cedric was called first. Their eyes met for a half-second—just long enough for Harry to give a tight, encouraging nod.

Cedric nodded back, jaw set, and disappeared through the tent flap.

And then came the sounds.

It was worse than Harry could have imagined. The crowd was one deafening, many-headed monster—cheering, gasping, shrieking. Bagman’s voice carried over it all, gleeful and breathless:

“Very narrow miss there—he’s taking risks, this one!”

Harry sat frozen on the bench, fists clenched in his lap. Fleur was pacing now, sharp and distressed, and even Krum looked faintly green. The tiny dragon model in Harry’s hand twitched with growing agitation.

“Clever move—pity it didn’t work!”

Merlin, Cedric, just get the egg. Please.

And then—finally—a thunderous roar from the crowd.

Bagman shouted, “He’s done it! He’s got the egg!”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Fleur went next, then Krum. Every time that the crowd shrieked and surged Harry’s mind spiraled—imagining blood, flame, and gruesome death.

He didn’t feel ready. He didn’t feel anything except the tremor in his hands and the bone-deep certainty that he was about to die.

They called his name.

He stood up. His legs felt like they’d been transfigured into marshmallows. The little Horntail in his hand bit at his thumb and vanished with a puff of smoke.

The whistle blew.

He walked out into the enclosure.

And there it was.

The Horntail crouched at the far end, a fortress of black scales and iron talons, wings partially unfurled like broken sails. Her eyes glowed yellow, ancient and furious, fixed on him.

The clutch of eggs lay just beneath her. His golden egg—his objective—glinting faintly from the center.

Harry raised his wand.

“Sonorus!” he cast, and the charm surged—surprisingly strong. He breathed a sigh of relief that echoed obnoxiously.

The Horntail hissed and lowered her head.

Harry licked his lips. This was mad. Absolutely mad.

He took one careful step forward. And then—

Then he let the words slide from his tongue like water over stone:

⚕️I shall not hurt you, or your hatchlings.⚕️  

The Horntail stilled, her massive head tilting. Yellow eyes—ancient, other-worldly—locked onto him with unnerving clarity and understanding.

Harry swallowed hard.

⚕️I desire only to remove a metal imposter from your nest.⚕️

For a moment, the world held still.

Then the Horntail reared back and let out a bellowing roar—the sound shaking Harry to his bones.

Well. At least she had responded.

But—unfortunately—Harry couldn’t understand her.

There may have been something in the tone of it—a grinding, guttural resonance that tugged at the edges of Harry’s comprehension…

Harry tried again—his voice low.

⚕️I do not want your eggs.⚕️
⚕️I seek only to help.⚕️

He took a cautious step forward. The Horntail growled—a warning. Her wings unfurled a bit, kicking up dust.

Harry swallowed and kept talking.

⚕️The metal one is not a hatchling. It does not breathe.⚕️
⚕️It was planted by wizards. I shall remove it, and go in peace.⚕️

She watched him with intelligent eyes, and Harry was suddenly entirely certain that she understood him — just not certain whether she was in agreement.

He took another step. And another.

For one impossible moment, Harry dared to think it might work.

And then she lunged.

Harry yelped and dove behind the nearest boulder, his quick reflexes barely saving him as a burst of flame scorched the ground he’d just been standing on. Smoke curled around him. The stands roared. Someone screamed his name.

Alright then. Harry thought. Plan B.

Hermione had been very clear that it wouldn’t work. But he stubbornly cast Quietus on himself anyway, shoving his wand forward and calling out, “Accio Firebolt!”

The wand buzzed faintly in his hand, like it was resisting him—like it was angry—and nothing happened.

“Accio Firebolt!” he shouted again, more desperately.

Still nothing.

The dragon shrieked, furious now, from somewhere behind his hasty shelter.

“Come on,” Harry growled through gritted teeth. “You piece of—Accio Firebolt—ACCIO!”

Nothing.

He slammed his hand against the ground in frustration. “Bloody hell! I just need a wand that actually likes me—!”

CRACK!

There was a sudden shift in the air, like a tuning fork had been struck deep inside the earth.

And then—

A blur of motion streaked through the sky, faster than a snitch.

Harry watched as a wand—from Merlin knows where—soared down like it had heard his call from a thousand miles away.

It landed in his outstretched palm like it had always belonged there, thrumming with power like a storm under his skin.

Harry froze.

Then the Horntail roared again, and instinct took over.

He rose from behind the boulder, brandished the new wand, and bellowed:

“Accio Firebolt!”

He knew, immediately, that the spell had worked; he felt his magic burst from him in a pulse stronger than anything he had ever felt before.

From the far-off castle grounds, his Firebolt launched itself like a bullet through the air—racing toward him.

Harry waited, each second agonizing, until the broom slammed into his open hand.

The Horntail reared back, eyes wide, smoke curling from her nostrils—

Harry swung a leg over the broom and took off.

Hermione

Hermione had gone still the moment Harry entered the arena. She didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Could barely hear the crowd over the roaring in her ears.

She hadn’t dared to hope the Parseltongue would work—but when the Horntail paused, stared at Harry with recognition, she let herself believe it for one terrible second.

Then the Horntail snapped.

Fire. Smoke. Screaming.

Hermione half-rose from her seat, wand clutched in her fingers as her mind tried to think of ways to get to Harry. 

But then Harry said something—she couldn’t hear what—and the air shifted. Magic rippled across the arena like someone had torn open the sky.

And a wand came rocketing down into his palm.

Hermione’s heart stopped.

“No,” she whispered, jaw slack. “No, no, no, no—”

In the judges’ box, Dumbledore had stood. He was watching, clearly in shock.

She couldn’t even focus on the Firebolt arriving, on Harry vaulting onto it and lifting into the air. She was still staring at the wand in his hand. That wand. The Elder Wand.

Someone dropped into the empty seat beside her. “Told you dragons aren’t snakes,” Nott murmured.

Hermione didn’t look at him. Her jaw was clenched, her chest aching.

“You knew,” she said, her voice hollow. “You knew it wouldn’t work.”

“I knew it might not work,” Nott corrected, eyes still on the pitch. “Not because speaking Parseltongue couldn’t work. Just—” he shrugged “—a dragon that has only ever experienced pain at the end of wizards’ wands was never going to trust what Potter had to say.”

Hermione closed her eyes.

“Plan B is excellent though,” he murmured blithely. “Ten out of ten. Unexpected. Flawlessly dramatic.”

She said nothing.

“Stealing the Headmaster’s wand might have been overkill though.”

Hermione flinched—feeling her face drain of color.

Nott’s amusement faltered. “Granger?”

When she didn’t respond, he stood and moved in front of her. “Hermione.”

She blinked at him, breathing shallowly.

Nott reached out—hesitated—then gently touched her shoulder. “Let’s get out of here. C’mon.”

He took her elbow, slowly, carefully, and steered her out of the stands.

They walked in silence down a sloping path, past the tent where the Champions had prepared, and into a small thicket of trees on the edge of the forest. The sounds of the crowd still drifted through the branches—muffled cheers, Bagman’s blaring commentary—but the trees gave them space to breathe.

Nott turned to face her. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

Hermione dragged in a breath, her pulse still hammering. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t have the words. Harry—Harry—with the Elder Wand in his hand. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Not yet. Not here.

She could feel Nott watching her carefully. No teasing. No smugness. Just steady and quiet concern.

“Hermione,” he said, voice gentler now. “Talk to me.”

She looked up at him. And for a moment—just a moment—she wanted to tell him everything.

Her voice came out hoarse: “I need to sit down.”

Nott nodded and guided her to a fallen tree. 

Hermione stared at her hands, still slightly shaking. Her voice was thin. “He’s not supposed to have that wand.” She swallowed. “He’s supposed to still be using his Holly wand. It’s how he survives the graveyard.”

It was as though someone had punched the breath out of Nott.

Hermione’s head whipped toward him, eyes wide. “You’ve seen that too?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then, quietly: “Bits.”

She waited, breath caught in her chest.

Nott sat beside her, elbows on his knees, eyes distant. “There’s a lot of uncertainty in that one. But I’ve seen it—the cauldron and the Death Eaters all gathered there. Harry’s always there and—” he flinched “—Diggory too, sometimes.”

Hermione bit her lip, a spark of hope in her chest. “Only sometimes?”

A flash of understanding crossed Nott’s features. “You’re trying to save him—to stop him from going.”

Hermione looked away, jaw tightening. “I’m… trying to stop a lot of things.”

She turned her gaze back to him. “You see things that haven’t happened yet. And I remember things that haven’t happened yet.”

Nott’s mouth parted slightly. It was the closest to speaking the full truth as she had come yet.

“I can’t explain,” she said firmly. “It wouldn’t be safe. But I need you to understand that everything—everything—hinges on timing. On sequence. One thread out of place and it all unravels.”

Nott was quiet for a long moment. “So we’re both stuck watching two versions of reality fight for control.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “Yes.”

He gave her a small, thoughtful nod. “Then let me help you keep the thread.”

Hermione blinked. “Why… why would you do that?”

“Because,” he murmured, “I doubt Hermione Granger would go rewriting history unless the first draft ended in utter disaster.”

Hermione stared, momentarily disarmed.

Nott, of course, noticed. His lips curved, slow and deliberate. “Besides,” he added, voice dipping just slightly, “you wear the weight of the world rather well. All that cosmic responsibility looks good on you.”

She made a strangled noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “That’s the strangest compliment I’ve ever heard.”

Nott smirked, unbothered. “It’s called flirting, Granger.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. A bit of color crept into her cheeks.

He tilted his head, clearly enjoying himself. “Don’t worry. You’re keeping up admirably—for someone trying to carry the entire timeline on her back.”

Hermione gave him a long, withering look—terribly aware of the riot of butterflies in her stomach.

Chapter Text

Harry

The inside of the champions’ tent smelled like smoke and adrenaline.

Harry stumbled in, legs unsteady, clutching his golden egg under one arm and the unfamiliar wand in the other. His brain was still catching up to what had happened. The dragon. The broom. The wand that wasn’t his, answering like it had been waiting for him to call it.

He’d barely had a moment to breathe before the tent flap opened again.

“Harry!”

Ron stood in the entrance, red-faced and breathless. He took two steps forward, then hesitated.

“I—erm—I just wanted to say—bloody brilliant, that was. I mean—you and that dragon, it was—”

Harry stared at him, silent.

Ron shifted his weight. “Look, mate, I was being a bit of a git, alright? I didn’t mean—well, I did, but I didn’t really think you put your name in. I was just being—” he waved his arms around “—stupid.”

After Harry made no move to speak, Ron gave a weak laugh. “You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”

“You don’t need to,” Harry said flatly. “I got the message loud and clear when you stopped talking to me.”

Ron opened his mouth, then shut it again. He looked chastised, but also irked by Harry’s reaction. In the end, he just turned and left, shoulders tense.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“A friend of yours?” Cedric asked gently.

Harry turned, startled to see him standing a few feet away, his hair tousled and ash-dusted. His eyes were warm.

Harry gave a shrug. “Dunno anymore.”

Cedric smiled. “Well, whatever else, you were incredible out there.”

Harry huffed. “I nearly became dragon chow.”

Cedric gave a quiet laugh, stepping closer to brush ash off Harry’s sleeve. Up close, Harry could see a blackened welt trailing down the side of his neck, angry and raw under a smear of green-ish paste.

“Wait—” Harry’s eyes widened. “Is that—did you get burned?”

Cedric touched the spot absently, as though only just remembering. “Yeah. Just barely caught me. Nothing serious—Madam Pomfrey sorted it already.”

Harry stared. “You say that like it’s not a burn from dragon fire.”  

Cedric smirked. “Hazards of the job.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Cedric’s gaze lingered—focused, almost awed.

“That broom stunt,” Cedric said, quieter now. “That was…” He trailed off, then gave a breath of disbelief. “Bloody hell, Harry. That was incredible.”

“Oh.” Harry shuffled his feet. “I was just trying not to die, really.”

Cedric let out a soft laugh. “Well, you managed to look good doing it.”

Harry swallowed. “I—what?”

“I mean—impressive,” Cedric corrected quickly, clearing his throat and looking away. “Obviously. Impressive.”

Harry stared at him. He looked… flustered?

Cedric rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks faintly pink beneath the ash. “Just saying—you made that Horntail look like a practice dummy.”

Harry, entirely unsure what to do with that, gave a weak shrug. “Didn’t feel that way from where I was sitting.”

A beat passed. Their eyes met again, the moment strange and charged and impossible to process.

And then the tent flap opened, breaking the tension like a snapped rope. Professor Dumbledore swept inside, composed of calm and grandfatherly twinkle.

“Mr. Potter,” he said genially. “Might I borrow you for a moment?”

Harry blinked. “Er—sure.”

Cedric gave him a nod and a parting smile, and Harry followed Dumbledore out through a side exit into the shadowed underbelly of the stands. Wooden scaffolding crisscrossed above them, thick support beams creaking faintly overhead. The air smelled of trampled grass and sawdust, and the muffled roar of the crowd filtered down like thunder through floorboards. Dim shafts of light cut through the slats, catching dust motes that hung suspended in the air.

“I wanted to offer my congratulations,” Dumbledore said, voice low and kind. “You performed admirably, Harry.”

Harry flushed. “Thanks, sir.”

Dumbledore smiled, then looked down at the strange wand still in Harry’s hand. “May I?”

Harry hesitated, then handed it over.

Dumbledore studied it with an expression of fond curiosity. “Ah, yes. It seems you’ve become acquainted with an old friend of mine.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Wait—you sent it to me?”

“No, my boy.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled faintly. “I believe you summoned it to yourself.”

Harry stared at him, aghast. “I stole your wand?” he blurted, voice suddenly (mortifyingly) squeaky.

Dumbledore laughed, deep and warm. “No, no. It appears that the wand chose you—perhaps some time ago, even. Wands are, as you know, curious and fickle things.”

Harry didn’t know what to say as Dumbledore handed the pale wand back to him.

“But,” Dumbledore continued, “I wonder… If you would humor an old man, I’d like to test a small theory. Might I see your old wand, Harry?”

Harry reached into his robes and pulled out his holly wand, handing it to Dumbledore in confusion. As soon as the Headmaster curled his fingers around it, the wand gave a low, warm hum. It practically sang—not aloud, but in a way Harry could feel, like music in his ribs.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, clearly pleased. “Ah. Just as I thought!”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked, awed.

“It means, Harry, that the allegiances of both wands have shifted. The wand that once answered to you now answers to me, and vice versa.”

Harry blinked. “But why?”

“I suspect,” Dumbledore said, weighing the holly wand in his hand merrily, “that’s a question with a very complex answer. One we can attempt to solve together—in time.”

He looked at Harry over his half-moon spectacles, then nodded to the pale wand in Harry’s grasp.

“I believe, Harry, that that wand will serve you much better—I insist that you keep it.”

Harry looked at it curiously, still confused about this series of developments—but the wand felt right in his hand. Warm. Alive.

“And the holly one?” Harry asked, nodding at the wand in Dumbledore’s grip.

Dumbledore smiled. “If you are amenable, Harry, perhaps I could keep it for now? A trade, if you will.”

Harry nodded without hesitation. “Yeah—of course!”

Dumbledore gave him a grateful look, and tucked the wand into his sleeve.

They started back toward the tent, Harry walking in a daze. They had just stepped back in when Harry was intercepted by a frantic-looking Bagman.

“There you are!” Bagman exclaimed, grabbing Harry lightly by the arm. “We were about to send someone looking for you. Come on, you’re needed back in the arena for scoring—quickly now, Harry!”

Harry barely had time to register the crowd again before he was ushered through a gate and onto a sort of balcony overlooking the charred, gouged earth of the enclosure floor. The stands and the judges’ table were across from them.

A roar of applause broke out as soon as he was in sight.

Dumbledore had already returned to the judges’ table, his face aloof but eyes twinkling as he nodded slightly in Harry’s direction. Madame Maxime, Karkaroff, and Crouch were seated beside him—all looking varying shades of impatient.

“Now that the last of our Champions has faced his dragon,” Bagman announced grandly, “it’s time to reveal the scores for Mr. Harry Potter!”

Harry felt terribly awkward and exposed, juggling his (absurdly heavy) golden egg like a squirming toddler as he waited.

The stands buzzed with anticipation.

Madame Maxime lifted her wand first, her chin high and voice cool. “Zeven. For creative strategy—‘e adapted quickly when ‘is snake language did not work.”

Karkaroff sneered, lifting his wand with a theatrical sigh. “Four. The first attempt failed completely. The second required no spellwork, no finesse—just a broom. Impressive flying, perhaps, but not impressive magic.”

There were murmurs in the crowd. Harry did his best to look unfazed.

Crouch raised his wand, his gaze sharp and impassive. “Six. A flawed execution, but ultimately effective.”

Karkaroff whipped around to face him, his voice rising in incredulous disbelief. “Six?” he shouted. “You, of all people, give that a six? He spoke Parseltongue!”

Crouch’s expression remained unchanged. “It is not against the rules to use one’s innate abilities, Igor.”

“It’s the mark of a dark wizard!”

Crouch’s lip curled, just faintly. “I did not say that I approved. I said that he succeeded.”

“Gentlemen,” Dumbledore cut in mildly from the far end of the table. “Perhaps we can save the philosophical debate for a more private setting.”

The crowd erupted into a low buzz of conversation, dozens of voices rising at once—some curious, some wary. Harry caught the word Parseltongue hissed like a curse from somewhere up in the stands, and his stomach sank.

It hadn’t even occurred to him—what it would look like. It was like second year all over again.

“Eight,” Dumbledore said clearly, breaking Harry’s internal turmoil. “For creative magic, self-preservation, and quick reflexes.”

Harry blinked as the number shimmered mid-air, cast from the very wand he had once called his own.

Bagman, grinning wide, threw up both hands. “And I’ll give him a ten! Most entertaining flying I’ve seen in years!”

The crowd cheered.

Harry stood frozen for a moment, dumbstruck. Madame Maxime rolled her eyes and Karkaroff muttered something in clipped Russian. Dumbledore simply watched, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.

“Thirty-five—not too bad,” said a voice behind him.

Harry startled, nearly dropping his egg. He turned to find Cedric grinning at him, hair still ashy and damp with sweat, curling ever so slightly at the nape of his neck.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” Harry muttered, clutching his egg tighter.

Cedric’s grin widened, looking utterly unrepentant. “Bit twitchy, aren’t you? Worse than a Niffler near a vault.”

Harry scowled, but before he could respond, Bagman stepped forward: 

“Now that our champions have all faced their dragons, I’m happy to share that the golden eggs they’ve each retrieved contain a clue to help prepare for the second task!” He waved grandly toward the crowd. “That concludes our first task! Champions, you are free to return to your warm beds—or perhaps the kitchens if you’re hungry—Merlin knows I could use a pasty!”

The crowd began to disperse, still abuzz with chatter. Harry fell into step with Cedric, trying to ignore the eyes still lingering on him.

“Got any guesses as to what’s in it?” Cedric asked, nodding toward the egg.

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Not a clue. Honestly, I’m still just amazed I’m not dead.”

“Hey,” Cedric said, stopping for a second so Harry had to look at him. “Give yourself some credit. That was skill, not a happy accident.”

Harry made a strangled sort of noise in response.

“You just pulled off something that no one else could have. You were brilliant, Harry.”

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, then—seemingly possessed—blurted: “Do you want to work on the clue together?” His face heated.

Cedric blinked, surprised—and then nodded slowly, his grin returning. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that. How about Sunday after dinner?”

“Brilliant—great,” Harry stammered, trying to act like his stomach wasn’t doing a backflip. “Library or somewhere less… full of people?”

Cedric hummed. “Astronomy Tower? It has good acoustics.”

“Acoustics?”

Cedric tapped Harry’s egg lightly with one finger. “Something tells me the clue might not be written in ink.”

Harry chuckled, the tension in his chest loosening ever so slightly. “Astronomy Tower it is.”

“Brilliant,” Cedric said, then stepped back, that easy smile still on his face. “See you then, Harry.”

Harry watched him walk away and tried very hard not to think about the fluttering in his stomach.

Just as he made to join the crowd walking back to the castle—feeling positively buoyant—a blur of curls and robes came flying at Harry.

“Harry James Potter!” Hermione shouted, nearly knocking him off balance as she crushed him into a hug. 

He laughed, dazed, and hugged her back. “Good to see you too.”

Hermione pulled back, suddenly swatting at his arm aggressively. “You daft, broom-happy adrenaline junkie!”

Harry yelped. “Ow—what—Hermione!”

“You could’ve died, you idiot!” she hissed, eyes flashing. “I said if absolutely necessary, not leap into the sky and taunt the Horntail five minutes in!”

Harry dodged the next swat, grinning despite himself. “Well, it was necessary.”

“You don’t know that! Perhaps if you had tried talking to her a second time—” 

“I did! She tried to roast me alive!”

Hermione crossed her arms, her curls frizzing with fury. “Honestly, Harry, you’re so impatient—”

“Nothing I said would have appeased her!” he said defensively. 

She gave him a long, withering look, then sighed and grabbed his hand.

“You’re lucky you’re alive.”

“Getting that a lot today.”

Behind Hermione, someone cleared their throat. Harry looked up to see—of all people—Theodore Nott standing with one hand in his pocket, gaze unreadable.

“Oh,” Harry said, blinking. “Hi?”

Nott nodded once in greeting. “Potter.”

Hermione turned sharply, clearly flustered. “He just—happened to be nearby,” she said a little too quickly.

Nott raised an eyebrow, but didn’t contradict her.

Harry glanced between them, completely mystified. “...Right.”

Hermione cleared her throat and, clearly eager to change topics, asked, “Did you open the egg yet?”

Harry shook his head. “Not yet. Cedric and I are going to try and figure it out together. We’re meeting Sunday night in the Astronomy Tower.”

Nott made an amused sound. “My, my, my,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t peg you for the type, Potter.”

Harry blinked. “Type for what?”

“Ignore him,” Hermione said flatly, throwing a glare over her shoulder.

Nott gave him a look so pitying it should’ve been illegal. “Gods, Potter. You’re so innocent it’s almost charming.”

Harry’s frown deepened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hermione made a strangled sound and seized Harry’s sleeve as though worried he’d start throwing hexes. 

“Really, Theodore,” she said, sounding exhausted. “Can’t you go five minutes without teasing someone?”

Nott’s grin widened into something insufferably pleased. “On a first-name basis now, are we?”

Hermione looked like she’d just swallowed her own tongue.

Harry, watching this exchange unfold, felt something in his brain short-circuit. Because he was fairly certain that Hermione and Theodore Nott were flirting.

“I’ll see you in Runes,” Nott said breezily. He shot Hermione a wink. “Hermione.”

And with that, he swaggered off, looking exceedingly pleased with himself.

Harry stared after him, stunned. 

Hermione cleared her throat, cheeks pink. “Let’s go,” she muttered, tugging him toward the castle.

“Hold up—” Harry said, still staring after Nott. “Was he just flirting with you?”

Hermione made a sound of pure exasperation. “No. Absolutely not.”

Harry smirked. “He winked at you.”

“He winks at everyone.”

“He called you Hermione.”

Hermione whirled on him, eyes narrowed. “I just saved you from relentless teasing and now you’re turning on me? You ungrateful prat!”

Harry laughed. “I’m just saying—I didn’t realize Runes was so romantic.”

“I will hex you,” she warned, though her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile.

“Worth it just to see you turn that particular shade of mortified.”

“You are insufferable, Harry Potter!”

He beamed. “I'm right is what I am.”

Their laughter and bickering was lost in the crowd’s chatter as they made their way up the sloping lawn and back toward the castle, the weight of dragons and mysterious wands—for just a moment—forgotten.

The Gryffindor table was buzzing. Harry could hardly butter his toast without someone reaching across to shake his hand or slapping his shoulder before going to take a seat. 

Oddly, students from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff kept drifting over too—some girls, a few boys—offering compliments, asking about his plans for tomorrow’s Hogsmeade day, or just giggling for no discernible reason at all.

Harry didn’t understand why. Most of them he’d never spoken to in his life and there were only so many ways to say ‘Yeah, I’m going to Hogsmeade with Hermione.’

Hermione, maddeningly, found the whole thing hilarious. She kept sipping her tea and hiding her smile behind the rim of her mug. When Harry asked her to explain what was going on, she just patted his hand and said, “Don’t worry about it, Harry,” in a tone that was infuriatingly patronizing.

He tried not to look in Ron’s direction. His former best mate was sitting several seats down the bench, hunched over his breakfast like it had personally offended him.

“Did you see how he dived?” Dean was saying to Seamus, as though Harry wasn’t directly across the table from him. “Like whoosh!—straight past the Horntail’s tail. Reckon it’s the best flying I’ve ever seen.”

Seamus nodded just as a crisp rustling noise passed down the table and the morning’s edition of the Daily Prophet arrived. Hermione reached for her personal copy absentmindedly—then froze.

And then, she screeched.

Half the table jumped. Neville, who had been drinking pumpkin juice, snorted a fountain of it through his nose in a painful-looking manner.

Hermione slammed the paper flat onto the table. The front page headline screamed in bold black ink:

“THE BOY-WHO-LIVED—OR THE HEIR-WHO-LIED?”
Shocking Parseltongue Display Raises Questions of Ancestry

Below the headline was a photo of Harry in the arena, hissing in a way that looked rather vicious—presumably taken in the middle of his attempt to speak to the Horntail.

Harry leaned over to read, brow furrowing as Hermione practically vibrated beside him.

Eyewitnesses at yesterday’s first task of the Triwizard Tournament confirm that Harry Potter, the so-called Boy-Who-Lived, spoke Parseltongue—an ability historically linked to Salazar Slytherin and his bloodline of dark wizards. This shocking display has ignited questions not just about Mr. Potter’s magical affinities—but his true bloodline.

The Potter family, a respected and long-established line of pure-blood wizards, has no documented history of Parseltongue. Nor are they known to be connected in any way to the Slytherin line. Magical genealogists agree: the gift of snake-speaking is vanishingly rare outside of Britain’s one infamous lineage.

Which begs the question: if Parseltongue is an inherited trait, how did Harry Potter acquire it?

Could the child raised as James Potter’s son, in truth, be connected to a darker legacy?

Harry stared, his jaw tight. The article continued, but he didn’t bother reading it. He knew it would just contain more insinuations that he wasn’t really James Potter’s son. That his mother, by implication, had lied and cheated.

His grip crumpled the edge of the paper.

Hermione made a sound somewhere between a shriek and a growl. “That—” she snatched the paper up from the table, holding it centimeters from her nose. “That bloody gossip rag! How dare they—!”

She cut herself off, voice strangled with outrage. Then, suddenly and sharply, she turned to Harry and asked, “How much money do you have?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“In your vault. Ballpark. Enough to retain a solicitor?”

“I—Hermione, what—?”

“Because you should sue them.” She flipped the paper around and jabbed her finger at the headline. “This is character assassination. It’s libel. You’re an underage wizard and they’re calling you illegitimate and a liar!”

George, seated a few spots down, peered over with interest. “Harry’s illegitimate?”

“The scandal!” Fred gasped theatrically. 

George fanned himself with a napkin. “The shame! The gossip! The inheritance lawyers!”

Then—with mock seriousness—Fred asked, “Do you reckon he’ll inherit more or less if it’s true?”

Harry groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

Hermione ignored them. “I’ll start researching firms after Defense. We’re going to bankrupt them so badly their vaults will echo!”

He lifted his head enough to shoot her a weary look. “We can… do that?”

“Of course we can! This,” she slapped the paper for emphasis, “is ill-researched slander.”

The Gryffindor table was buzzing now, other students passing the paper around and reading over friends’ shoulders. 

Seamus, flicking toast crumbs off his robes, waggled his eyebrows at Harry suggestively. “So, Harry—you fancy snakes then?”

Dean snorted into his pumpkin juice. “Clearly. He did tame a dragon.”

“Yeah,” Seamus said, grinning wickedly. “And rumor has it he’s got his eye on a certain Hufflepuff’s… serpent.”

Harry choked on his toast.

Fred’s eyes widened with mock innocence. “Diggory keeps a pet snake now, does he?”

“No,” George answered mischievously, “but Harry’s clearly hoping to train it.”

“Train what now?” said a warm, familiar voice behind them.

The entire table went silent. Standing directly behind Harry, a very distracting dimple denting his cheek, was Cedric Diggory. 

Harry, feeling almost faint, cleared his throat. “Nope—nothing—nothing worth repeating. What’s up, Cedric?”

Cedric raised a confused brow, his eyes darting to George briefly. “Just wondering if you’re done with breakfast. I wanted to talk to you.”

“I—yes. Yep. Very done.” Harry sprang to his feet so quickly he nearly upended his plate. 

From behind, Fred whispered, “Someone’s keen.”

Harry ignored him, following Cedric out of the Great Hall with what he hoped was a dignified stride and not a flailing panic-sprint. Cedric glanced back, clearly amused.

Cedric led him through the Entrance Hall, ducking behind one of the massive tapestries lining the far wall—this one depicting a medieval centaur reciting poetry. Behind was the mouth of a hidden passage.

Cedric leaned against the wall casually, arms folded. “So,” he said, lips twitching, “Heir of Slytherin, huh?”

Harry groaned. “Not you too.”

“I mean,” Cedric went on, pretending to think very hard, “you did enter the Chamber of Secrets. Saved a girl. Fought a basilisk. Definitely very evil of you.”

“Exactly,” Harry said dryly. “All part of my grand plan to restore the Slytherin legacy—through heroism and blood loss.”

Cedric snorted. “Terrifying.” 

“Anyway…” he continued, “Hogsmeade’s tomorrow. I’m going with Cho in the morning—that’s kind of a tradition—but I was thinking…” He trailed off, gaze flicking up to meet Harry’s. “Maybe we could meet up in the afternoon? Three Broomsticks?”

Harry’s heart did something extremely acrobatic in his chest. “Yeah!” he said, too quickly. “Yeah, sure. That’d be great.”

“Brilliant,” Cedric said, looking pleased. “Might be nice to talk about something other than the Tournament for once.”

“Oh,” Harry said eloquently.

Cedric raised an eyebrow, looking bemused. “That… alright?”

Harry nodded quickly. “Yeah! Definitely. Sounds good.”

“Great,” Cedric said, pushing off the wall with that just-slightly-distractingly-charming ease of his. “Tomorrow afternoon, then. I’ll find you.”

Harry bit down on his lower lip before he could blurt out something like would this be a date? and instead nodded—casually, he hoped.

Just when Harry thought Cedric would leave, he stepped closer instead.

Close enough that Harry forgot how to breathe properly. His heart stuttered. Cedric’s gaze flicked down to Harry’s bitten lip, and for one terrifying, electrifying second, Harry thought he might actually lean down to kiss it.

Then Cedric reached up and—very matter-of-factly—adjusted Harry’s collar.

“There,” he said. “Wouldn’t want the Prophet to catch you looking rumpled.”

Harry’s brain produced no meaningful thoughts whatsoever.

Cedric flashed him a grin, devastating and effortless. “See you tomorrow, Harry.”

And with that, he turned and ducked through the tapestry, leaving Harry rooted to the spot like someone had hexed his shoes to the floor.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The Gryffindor common room was mostly quiet, crackling with the low hum of toasty fires and the occasional turning of a page. Hermione was nestled in her usual armchair, Transfiguration textbook balanced on one knee, when the portrait door swung open and Harry all but collapsed onto the sofa beside her.

She blinked. “Everything alright?”

Harry groaned and flopped onto his back, covering his face with one arm. “I don’t know what I’m doing!”

Hermione closed her book. “Can you be more specific?”

Harry peeked out, cheeks pink. “Cedric asked me to meet him tomorrow afternoon at the Three Broomsticks. After he goes to Hogsmeade with Cho.”

Hermione smiled. “Oh?”

“I don’t know if it’s a date!” Harry whispered, as if the Fat Lady might overhear. “And if it is a date, I don’t know how to be on one! And I’ve never—” He made a vague hand gesture that Hermione assumed was meant to imply kissing.

With a practiced flick of her wand, Hermione cast Muffliato, creating a private space for them to talk without eavesdropping. She tried to look reassuring as she gently said, “Harry, it’s probably a date. Cedric clearly likes you.”

“But why?” Harry sat up suddenly, looking at her in earnest distress. “I mean—he’s Cedric Diggory! He’s tall and handsome and confident, and I look like a lost first-year who’s been cursed to live under a pile of laundry.”

Hermione tried very hard not to laugh at that mental image. “Harry, for the love of Merlin. You’re funny, you’re kind, you’re brave, and you’re actually very talented when you use your brain.”

“But he could be with anyone!” Harry argued, adding with a grimace, “You know… someone good-looking.”

Hermione just stared, unsure how her best friend was this dense.

He shrugged, awkward and miserable. “I’m not wrong.”

“You are, actually,” she said matter-of-factly. “Did you miss the dozen people who came over this morning to ask you out?”

Harry frowned. “No one asked me out.”

Hermione let out a groan of fond exasperation. “Harry. Asking about Hogsmeade is the same as asking you out. It’s code.”

“Oh,” Harry said, shifting uncomfortably. “That’s… I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do,” she said. She smacked him playfully with a cushion. “So get it through your thick skull—everyone wants to date you. And I would bet that Cedric Diggory finds you absolutely adorable.”

Harry made a face. “Adorable?”

“Oh, don’t you scrunch your nose at me, Harry Potter! If you’re going for some misunderstood bad boy aesthetic, you’ve definitely failed.”

Harry scowled.

“Moving along: I have a book on snogging and other physical activities that I can lend you—”

“You—you what?”

“—it’s informative and illustrated,” she continued, entirely unbothered. 

Harry buried his face in his hands, ears burning. “Merlin.”

“You’re the one panicking about being unprepared,” she said smugly. “You can return it once you’ve figured things out.”

He made a strangled noise, but eventually gave a tiny, mortified nod.

“Now. What was that bit about ‘after he goes to Hogsmeade with Cho’?”

Harry gave a casual shrug. “He said they always go in the morning—like a tradition. So he’ll come find me in the afternoon.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, something uneasy curling in her gut. The connections among Harry, Cedric, and Cho across the two timelines had the makings of a very messy love triangle.

But Harry seemed unaware, and meddling would probably do more harm than good. 

“Well,” she said carefully, “it’s nice that he’ll have time to see you after.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, though his hopeful smile slowly faded into a grimace. He hesitated, toeing at the rug. “Hermione, I don’t exactly have… anything decent to wear.”

She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” he sighed, tugging at the hem of his jumper. “It’s all just school robes or Dudley’s old castoffs. Nothing nice.”

She blinked, having completely forgotten that in fourth year Harry had still never gone shopping for decent clothing.

“It’s fine,” he added quickly, a little too defensive. “It’s just—we’re meeting in public, and he’s Cedric, and—well—I’d rather not look like I got dressed in the dark at a charity bin.”

Hermione’s heart squeezed. She reached over and took his hand, feeling determined. “Then we’re fixing that. Come on.”

“Fixing—what? Hermione—”

“You’re meeting Cedric Diggory for a maybe-date. You are not doing it dressed like an orphan in secondhand denim.”

“I am an orphan in secondhand denim.”

She dragged him up from the sofa and marched him toward the portrait hole.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked warily.

“To the seventh floor,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Time for you to meet the Room of Requirement.”

Fifteen minutes later, Harry stood in stunned silence inside what looked like the private dressing room of a particularly stylish wizarding tailor. Velvet-lined walls shimmered with folded ensembles, and a trio of enchanted mirrors offered suggestions as shimmering hangers floated in midair.

Hermione grinned like a cat who’d caught the cream. “Welcome to your new second-hand wardrobe. Now let’s find something that simultaneously says ‘dashing dragon-slayer’ and ‘very kissable.’”

Sweet, naive Harry had no clue how many hearts he was breaking.

Hermione watched him with amusement at breakfast, chin propped in one hand as he blinked blearily down at his toast. He was completely unaware of the trail of longing gazes that had followed him from the moment he set foot in the Great Hall.

He looked stylish—wearing a crisp collared shirt under a soft emerald sweater with a sort of salt and pepper pattern woven in, trousers that somehow straddled the line between wizarding formality and Muggle casual, and hair that was just barely on the ‘roguish’ side of messy. The open robe overtop of the outfit—plucked from the Room of Requirement’s curated graveyard of lost and forgotten fashion—fit miraculously well through the shoulders and had only required a bit of hemming at the cuffs (which Hermione had done herself after a helpful book of clothier spells appeared in the room).

The overall effect was, to Hermione’s pleasant surprise and Harry’s complete cluelessness, dashing. He looked like someone out of a coming-of-age novel. Or possibly a very earnest new hire at the Ministry who would accidentally steal your heart and your quill.

And he had no idea.

He really was hopeless.

“You look nice,” she said breezily, pouring a second cup of tea.

Harry groaned. “Please don’t say anything. I’m about two seconds away from vanishing under the table.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Hermione said, searching for the sugar tongs. “Finally becoming fashionable isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

Before Harry could do more than scowl, a third-year girl from Hufflepuff wandered past them, walking much slower than strictly necessary, eyes fixed on Harry. Hermione didn’t miss the dreamy smile or the whispered, “It matches his eyes...”

Harry caught it too. He looked faintly panicked.

By the time they stood to leave for Hogsmeade, two Ravenclaw girls had waved, one Gryffindor second-year had tripped while trying to offer Harry a folded note, and Seamus had declared (loudly) that he’d never seen Harry Potter strut before.

“I wasn’t strutting!” Harry hissed to Hermione as they made their way down toward the Entrance Hall.

“Of course not,” she said with mock indulgence. “That’s just how mysterious young heroes walk.”

They’d just passed through the great oak doors when Fred and George swept in to flank Harry like gawky bodyguards.

“Harry!” Fred cried. “Looking sharp. What’s the occasion?”

George gave him a once-over and whistled. “Nice sweater, fit trousers, and brooding eyes? Merlin, you’ve gone full heartthrob.”

Harry groaned. “Can you not.”

“Is this a new strategy for the second task?” Fred asked. “Seducing the judges?” 

“Bagman does look rather lonely.” George added unhelpfully. 

Hermione rolled her eyes and gently shoved them aside. “We’re going to Scrivenshaft’s. Shoo.”

“Oh ho!” Fred called, waggling his eyebrows as they parted ways. “Planning to write some love letters, are we?”

They escaped down the sloping path to Hogsmeade, opting to walk instead of carriage. The air was cold and bright, and their breath curled like steam in front of them. The walk was mostly quiet with the exception of one point when a Slytherin fifth-year popped their head out of a passing carriage to yell, “Hey Potter! You can be the Heir of my Slytherin!” before being smacked by their friend.

“That didn’t even make sense,” Hermione scoffed at the same moment that Harry whinged, “Is it too late to change?” 

They reached Scrivenshaft’s without further incident—though Harry was still flushed from the attention—and stepped into the warm, cramped shop filled with the scent of parchment and ink. A bell chimed overhead as they entered.

A squat wizard behind the counter gave them a distracted wave.

“I need a bottle of turquoise ink,” Hermione murmured, already scanning the shelves.

Harry hummed absentmindedly, drifting toward a display of quills made from exotic feathers. 

The bell chimed again just as Hermione reached for a crystal ink bottle.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” a familiar voice drawled. 

Hermione huffed. “Yes, what a shocking turn of events, Theodore.”

“Shocking and delightful,” Theo said smoothly, appearing at her elbow. “Fate does seem determined to throw us together in the most romantic of locations.” 

A soft snort drew her attention to the corner of the shop, where Harry stood beside a display of spell-checking quills, grinning. He caught her eye and lifted his eyebrows in silent, unhelpful glee.

She narrowed her eyes at him. 

Hermione turned back to Theo with a scowl, only to find him smiling at her in that infuriatingly amused way of his, one hand tucked casually in his pocket.

“So,” he said, stepping into her space just enough to be irritating, “I was thinking—since this is clearly fate—we ought to turn this into a proper date. Lunch?”

“No,” Hermione said automatically, reaching for another bottle of ink at random and pretending to inspect the label. “Harry and I have plans.”

“Excellent,” he said cheerfully, “I can get to know him better, too.”

Hermione glared, moving further down the aisle. “I said no.”

He followed without shame. 

“You’re really not going away, are you?” Hermione muttered as Theo trailed her down the aisle relentlessly.

“Not until you agree to have lunch with me,” he said brightly. He plucked an ink bottle from a high shelf and said smugly, “This is what you’re looking for.”

Hermione glowered. It was what she was looking for.

“How about the Three Broomsticks? Today’s special is treacle-glazed roast.”

“No.”

He hummed. “The Hole-In-The-Wall? I hear their cheese scones are delightful.”

“No.”

Theo clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “Alright, perhaps something more daring—how about we skip off to Apothecary Café in Knockturn Alley?”

Harry, still loitering near the spell-checking quills and pretending not to eavesdrop, let out a startled laugh.

“We aren’t allowed to leave Hogsmeade!” Hermione hissed.

“Ah, right you are,” Theo mused innocently, then turned to Harry. “Potter, help me out: Where would you take a charming, clever witch who keeps insisting that she doesn’t want to be wooed?”

“Don’t answer that!” Hermione snapped at Harry, who looked superbly uncomfortable.

“Ah!” Theo said suddenly, his tone just theatrical enough that Hermione was certain he’d been working toward saying this all along. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of it sooner? La Flamme de Lune.”

Hermione faltered.

Theo’s grin turned smug. “There we go—now I’ve got your attention.”

“La Flamme de Lune is extortionate,” Hermione said, recovering quickly. “That place charges fifteen galleons for sparkling elderflower water.”

“It’s your lucky day, then,” Theo said breezily. “Because I’m paying.”

She bit her lip. “You can afford that?”

Theo looked mildly affronted. “I’m from an old, rich, Sacred Twenty-Eight family, Granger. Do try to keep up.”

Hermione hesitated.

“Come on, Hermione,” he coaxed, stepping closer. “Just one little lunch date.”

She crossed her arms. Glared at the shelf. Considered her options.

Theo waited, smug and patient.

“Fine!” she finally snapped, her voice going slightly squeaky. But then, feeling cornered and flustered, she blurted, “But Harry’s coming too!”

From behind the display of color-changing ink, Harry made a pained sound. “I am?”

Theo, unfazed, beamed. “Excellent—a chaperone. Very proper for a courting couple.”

Hermione made a noise so strangled it barely qualified as human. “We are not—this is not—no one is courting anyone!”

“Mmm. If you say so,” Theo said, infuriatingly serene. “I, for one, look forward to our inevitable future.”

Her breath caught at the implication.

He winked, saying, “See you at half-past eleven, then?” and sweeping out of the shop without so much as waiting for confirmation.

There was a long pause.

Then, from behind the display of color-changing ink, Harry said with exaggerated innocence, “I think you’re dating Theodore Nott.”

“I am not.”

“You just agreed to a date, ‘Mione,” he said, grinning now.

“With you present!”

“Mmm. I don’t know how courting works,” Harry mused with glee, “...but I’m pretty sure that still counts.”

Hermione whirled on him, eyes narrowing dangerously. “So help me, Harry Potter, I will personally inform Cedric Diggory that you read a guidebook on snogging for your ‘maybe-date.’”

Harry immediately shut up.

Hermione smirked in triumph and turned back to the register. “Thought so.”

They stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, the shop bell chiming behind them. The cold hit Hermione’s cheeks in a rush, and she tugged her scarf up higher as a few lazy snowflakes drifted down from the grey sky above.

“Alright,” Harry said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his robe. “We’ve got about an hour until your not-date with Theo. What’s next?”

Hermione gave him a look. “I will hex you.”

Harry grinned. “Noted.”

She glanced down the cobbled lane, thinking. “Honeydukes?”

“Always a must-visit.”

They’d barely taken three steps when a voice called, cheerful and slightly out of breath: “Harry! Hermione!”

Hermione turned to see Neville waving at them as he hurried down the street, cheeks pink from the cold and scarf dragging behind him on the ground. Trailing behind him was Ron.

Neville looked genuinely happy to see them. Ron... less so.

“Hiya, Neville,” Harry said, warm but wary.

“Out shopping?” Hermione asked with a smile, pointedly pretending Ron wasn’t lurking nearby.

Neville nodded, bouncing slightly on his feet. “Yeah, we just left Zonko’s. Someone set off a whole shelf of dungbombs, though—smelled awful.”

Behind him, Ron muttered something under his breath and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, not making eye contact.

Hermione’s smile dimmed. “Sounds… fun.”

There was an awkward pause. Ron looked anywhere but at them. Neville shifted uncomfortably, clearly sensing the tension but unsure of what to do.

“We were just heading to Honeydukes,” Harry said finally, voice neutral.

Neville brightened. “Oh—nice! That sounds—er—nice...” He looked back at Ron as if hoping he’d agree.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled lamely.

“You look good, by the way!” Neville suddenly commented, his tone endearingly sincere. “The new outfit—it really suits you.”

Harry gave a pinched smile. “Thanks, Neville.”

Ron scoffed under his breath. 

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Got something to say to me, Ron?”

Hermione grimaced.

Ron shrugged stiffly. “Bit odd how you’re suddenly dressing the part of famous, isn’t it? Since you supposedly hate the attention.”

Neville shifted, clearly uneasy. “Ron, I—I don’t think that’s fair—”

“Bit odd how you’re suddenly talking to me again,” Harry snapped back.

Hermione watched it all unfold with a mix of dread and dismay. Ron, befriending Neville. That had never happened in the last timeline. He’d always treated Neville… well, like a bit of a hanger-on, to be honest. 

She was torn. On one hand, maybe the new friendship would be good for Ron. Perhaps Neville’s quiet, kind presence could pull him out of his jealousy-fueled pig-headedness. And Neville—sweet, earnest Neville—seemed genuinely eager to finally have one of the Gryffindor boys as a close companion.

But, on the other hand, if Ron acted like a right wanker to Neville, Hermione would need to put a stop to it. Neville deserved better.

“We should all go to Honeydukes!” Neville offered suddenly, too brightly. “Sweets make everything better, right?”

Hermione didn’t miss the way Ron’s mouth twisted before he gave a stiff shake of the head. “Can’t. Loads of stuff to do.”

Neville blinked, then nodded. “Right, of course.” A beat. “Actually, I—I forgot. My gran sent me a whole box of sweets already, so I probably shouldn’t—yeah, I’ll stick with Ron.”

It was the most obvious lie Hermione had ever heard.

Harry didn’t call him out. He just nodded, his brow furrowed, as Neville gave them both a strained smile and turned to follow Ron—who had already begun stomping away.

Hermione watched them go, her stomach uneasy.

Then Harry muttered, “What’s his problem?” and set off toward Honeydukes, boots crunching softly over the snow-dusted path.

Hermione followed, choosing to treat the question as rhetorical.

The warm glow of the sweetshop was a welcome contrast to the crisp air outside. The windows were fogged from the heat inside, and the scent of sugar and warm chocolate hit them the moment they opened the door. Harry visibly relaxed at the familiar smells and cheerful chaos—students laughing, cash register bells chiming, and discarded wrappers crinkling underfoot.

They meandered through the shelves with no real plan, Hermione snagging a fresh bag of sugar quills and Harry staring down a Fizzing Whizzbee display like it had personally offended him. Eventually, he picked out a pack of exploding bonbons, and she selected a tin of rose-petal toffees. By the time they made it to the front to pay, some of the tension in Harry’s jaw had eased, and he no longer looked like he was one rude comment away from hexing someone.

But Hermione, for her part, had started to unravel.

She checked her watch. Then she checked it again. And again. Her stomach flitted between nerves and nausea as the time crept toward half-past.

After the sixth watch-check, Harry gave her a look.

“What?” she said defensively.

Harry rolled his eyes and took her bag of sweets to carry. “Come on,” he said, grabbing her elbow. “Let’s go get you wooed by the poshest lunch menu in Hogsmeade.”

Hermione let him lead her out of the shop, trying very hard not to feel like she was walking toward her own doom.

A very charming, well-dressed, infuriating doom named Theodore Nott.

Chapter Text

Harry

La Flamme de Lune was—unfortunately—exactly the kind of place Theodore Nott would take someone on a date.

After being seated, delivered menus, and exchanging small talk, Harry was already itching to flee. The bistro was sleek and dimly lit, with floating silver lanterns casting flattering light from above and the occasional waft of rose and citrus from a discreetly enchanted floral arrangement in the corner. 

The table was intimate. Clearly meant for two. 

Not two plus a deeply uncomfortable third party trying to disappear into the floor.

Harry sat squeezed behind the side of their little table, half-buried in stuffy window draperies. He sipped his sparkling elderflower water and tried not to look like a stray that had followed them in. Hermione and Nott sat across from each other with perfectly mirrored postures—Hermione coming off as poised and Nott as regal. 

They looked like they were halfway through a business negotiation. 

Harry wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact that Nott kept giving Hermione insufferably fond looks whenever she snapped at him, or that Hermione kept pretending she didn’t like it.

It was deeply uncomfortable.

“So!” Hermione chirped suddenly, turning to Nott like she’d just remembered something exciting, “What do you know about wizarding solicitors?”

Grimacing, Harry sunk even lower into his seat—wanting nothing more than to stay as far out of their conversation as possible.

Nott, unfazed, arched a brow. “That depends. Are we being sued, or are you drafting our betrothal contract?”

Harry choked on his drink.

Hermione ignored both of them, rifling through her bag and pulling out a folded clipping from the Daily Prophet. “Hypothetically,” she said, smoothing the paper over the table, “if one wanted to pursue legal action against a newspaper for publishing defamatory material about an underage wizard—how would that work?”

Harry leaned toward her, hissing, “For the love of Merlin, ‘Mione, you’re on a date.”

But Nott just waved a hand lazily. “Don’t bother, Potter. We won’t be having any heart-to-hearts until our third date.”

Puzzled by the strange joke, Harry turned to Hermione for an explanation. She looked mildly pink and said—far too quickly: “Anyway! I’m gathering options for Harry that strike the balance of not draining his vault but also ensuring the paper’s total destruction.”

Nott gave a low hum of amusement. “Well, Potter’s old-money rich. I sincerely doubt cost will be an issue.”

Harry blinked. “I’m what now?”

Nott shot him an incredulous look. “You have seen inside the Potter vault, haven’t you?”

“Yeah?” Harry said, confused. “There’s like an enormous pile of Galleons but probably not enough that I’ll never need a job or something.”

“Merlin, Potter. That would be your trust vault. You know—the one your parents set up for school supplies and frivolous shopping until you come of age.”

Harry stared at him.

“The actual Potter vault,” Nott continued, “will probably be on the lowest, most secure floor. It will be full of heirlooms and enough books to stock the Hogwarts library.” He gave Harry a considering look. “I suppose you won’t have access to it until you come of age, though your legal guardian ought to.”

Harry flinched, thinking of the Dursleys having access to a mountain of gold.

Nott drummed his fingers against the table, looking downright conniving. “But that hardly matters if you retain a solicitor to represent the Potter family—which, granted, only includes you at this point. An expense like that is likely already on the family vault’s pre-approved expenditure list. All you would need to do is notify your Gringotts account manager that the Potter family has retained a new family solicitor and they’ll arrange for funds from the main vault to start paying monthly.”

Harry stared and—because he had literally no clue how to react to this onslaught of new information—merely said, “Huh.”

“Right. Well.” Hermione looked just as stunned. “That’s settled, then. You’re hiring the best.”

“I—okay?” Harry said weakly, and before he could process anything further, the first course arrived on a gleaming silver tray. Two perfectly plated hors d’oeuvres—tiny savory tarts with edible gold dust and a single heart-shaped garnish—were set in front of Hermione and Nott with an elegance that screamed intimate dining.

There was no third hors d’oeuvre for Harry.

Nott gave a slow, satisfied smile. “And now would be the traditional moment, Potter, for you to make up a polite excuse and vanish into the snowy afternoon.”

“Don’t you dare,” Hermione hissed, pointing her fork at Harry without even looking at him.

Nott leaned back in his chair, eyes glinting with mischief and voice feigning concern. “But Hermione—if he doesn’t go now, he might miss running into a certain golden prince!”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Honestly, Potter.” Nott gave him a pitying look. “Golden. Prince. It’s like I have to draw you a map.”

Hermione seemed to be waging an internal war. Her nostrils flared. “Harry and Cedric are planning to meet this afternoon,” she said through gritted teeth.

Nott looked positively smug. “Mmm. I envision that timeline is going to roll out… differently.”

Harry glanced between them, baffled. “What is happening right now?”

“You’re running off to get snogged,” Nott said indifferently.

Harry made a strangled sound, somewhere between a scoff and a panicked wheeze. “I am not running off to ‘get snogged.’”

“Maybe not intentionally,” Nott said lightly, sipping his water like this conversation was completely normal.

Harry pushed back from the table, face burning. “Right. Well. I’m going. Not because of—you. Or snogging. Or Cedric. Just for… fresh air.”

Hermione shot him a desperate look—which Harry ignored—as he fled from the table.

The bell over the door jingled as Harry stumbled into the street, which now had at least five centimeters of snow accumulated. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and donned mittens. Thick, lazy flakes drifted down from the grey sky, softening the world into a quiet blur.

He scowled, his stomach growling loudly. “Great,” he muttered. “Brilliant. Starving and played like a violin.”

Feeling thoroughly irritable, Harry veered off the main road, cutting through a narrow alley toward the village center. His boots crunched over the snow-slick cobblestones, his mind a peeved whirl of awkward table settings, smug Slytherins, and the absolutely absurd notion that he was going to run into—

“Harry?”

He froze mid-step.

Because standing at the end of the alley, bundled in a black cloak and dusted with snow, was Cedric Diggory.

Stunned, Harry blurted: “Did Theodore Nott tell you to wait here?”

Cedric looked completely thrown. “No? I don’t even know who that is.”

“Oh,” Harry said, blinking rapidly. His face felt inexplicably hot despite the cold. “Right. Never mind.”

Brow furrowed, Cedric asked, “Why did you think someone sent me here…?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling foolish. “It’s going to sound stupid, but… just before I left lunch, he predicted that I was about to bump into a ‘golden prince.’” 

“A… golden prince?”

“His words.” Harry quirked a nervous smile. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Cedric didn’t laugh. He was still staring at Harry with a peculiar expression—one Harry couldn’t place. Something tight and a bit distant.

Then, with a strained sort of casualness, Cedric asked, “So… you had lunch with Nott?”

He snorted. “If you can call being dragged along by Hermione—who’s in denial about the fact that she’s clearly dating him—having lunch, then sure.” Wrinkling his nose, Harry shoved his mittened hands into his pockets. “Plus having lunch implies eating—which I didn’t get the chance to do. Nott ordered for two and then glared at me until I left.”

Harry quirked a smile, feeling no guilt whatsoever as he added, “Hermione was furious.”

That earned him a small huff of a laugh from Cedric—who sounded almost… relieved?

“So,” Harry said, more to fill the silence than anything, “how was your morning?”

Cedric scratched the back of his neck. “Ah… well, it was…” He let out a breath and glanced skyward like the answer might be written in the snowfall. “It was… bad.”

Harry frowned. “What happened?”

Cedric hesitated. “I met up with Cho. Like we always do. We’ve done it for years—Hogsmeade, tea, a bit of shopping. It’s our tradition.” He paused. “She brought me a biscuit she’d baked. Chocolate hazelnut.”

“That sounds… nice?” Harry offered, unsure.

“It was,” Cedric said quietly. 

Harry waited.

“She tried to kiss me,” Cedric said, voice thin. “But I pulled away.”

“Oh.”

Something twisted in Harry’s gut—like he had missed a step on the staircase. 

Cedric ran a hand through his hair, snowflakes scattering. “I didn’t mean for her to get the wrong idea. I thought we were just… comfortable. Affectionate friends.” His voice faltered. “I thought we were on the same page.”

Harry made a faint, noncommittal sound. He didn’t trust himself to say anything coherent.

“I should’ve said something ages ago,” Cedric said. “She was really upset. Said I strung her along. That I left her in the lurch as soon as—” He stopped abruptly, shuffling on his feet and looking away from Harry. “Anyway. It’s complicated. She’s probably right to be angry with me.”

Harry had absolutely no idea what to say to that. His heart was thudding unhelpfully in his chest, and the only sentence bouncing around in his head was I’m glad you didn’t kiss her—which seemed like a rather insensitive thing to say. On an impulse, he made to take Cedric’s hand—but then panicked, patting his elbow instead.

Cedric blinked, then looked down at his arm. “Did you just… pat my elbow?”

Harry felt his face flush. “I was—trying to be comforting.”

Cedric stared at him for a moment, then broke into startled laughter. “Merlin,” he said, grinning, “I think I’ve finally found something you’re not good at.”

Harry groaned and hid his face behind his mittened hands. After a beat, they were gently peeled away by Cedric, whose amber eyes looked down at him fondly. “Points for effort.”

A loud rumble interrupted them—Harry’s stomach, making itself known. He winced. “Sorry. Haven’t eaten.”

Cedric hummed. “Me neither, actually.” Then, with a cautious sort of hopefulness: “You want to grab lunch? I know a place.”

Harry’s heart fluttered. “Yeah, okay.”

Cedric took Harry’s hand and tugged him forward. “Come on, then.”

Harry let himself be pulled, half-stumbling as they veered off the High Street and ducked into a narrow lane between two shops. They stopped in front of a used bookstore that Harry had passed a hundred times without ever noticing. The faded sign above the door read Ink & Dust.

“A bookstore?” Harry asked, confused.

Cedric just smiled. “Trust me.”

Inside, the shop was cramped and smelled like parchment, old leather, and something herbal. Shelves stretched nearly to the ceiling, leaning at precarious angles under the weight of hundreds of haphazardly arranged books. A tabby cat slept across an open atlas on the front counter.

Cedric didn’t pause to browse. He led Harry straight through the back stacks. There—wedged into what looked like a converted storage nook—was a small, half-hidden café. A grim-looking wizard in a mustard-yellow robe stood behind a smudged counter, scowling at a sandwich he was wrapping.

“Wha—?” Harry whispered.

Cedric bumped Harry with his shoulder playfully. “Best sandwiches in Hogsmeade. And no crowds.”

There was a fogged window showcasing towers of stacked sandwiches—roast beef and horseradish, spiced pear and cheddar, and what looked like pumpkin puree with chocolate shavings.

“What do you like?” Cedric asked, peering at the selection.

“Er—surprise me?”

Cedric nodded and turned to the grumpy wizard, ordering their sandwiches along with two mugs of steaming spiced cider. The food and drink promptly disappeared into a paper bag that looked hardly big enough to hold a bludger. Cedric thanked the man, dropped a few Sickles into a tip jar shaped like a howling wolf, and turned to leave.

“We’re not eating here?” Harry asked as they made their way back out.

Cedric gave him a look. “Did you see any tables?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Where are we going, then?”

“You’ll see.”

They exited the bookstore and headed down a quieter residential street. Snow crunched underfoot as they passed a row of pastel-painted townhouses with ivy-strangled gates and frosted windows. Cedric stopped in front of a tall blue one with iron railings and fished a key from his coat pocket.

“This is my aunt’s place,” he explained, pushing the door open. “She winters in Spain, so I water her plants.”

Harry followed him inside, cheeks flushed from the cold—and from the sudden realization that he was being led alone into a vacant house by Cedric Diggory. 

He slapped himself mentally.

After ascending three flights of stairs, Cedric finally pushed open the door to a bright sitting room, led Harry through, and stepped out onto a wide balcony. Harry’s breath caught.

It overlooked the entire village, with a sweeping view of snow-dusted rooftops and distant castle towers. Best of all, it was utterly dry—and warm. The balcony was enchanted, clearly, the snow melting before it touched the flagstones.

Cedric silently conjured a low table and a pair of cushiony chairs before setting down their lunch. “Bit better than the Three Broomsticks?”

Harry sat, still a little overwhelmed. “Just a bit.”

Cedric pulled out their sandwiches—Harry’s turned out to be beef and mustard on some kind of black pepper bread—and handed over a mug of cider.

They sat in easy silence for a while, eating and sipping as students moved like dots below them, laughter and distant conversation floating up through the air.

“So,” Cedric said after a moment, glancing sideways. “Have you determined whether I’m the prophesized Golden Prince yet?”

Harry smiled against his mug. “Dunno. I’ll have to see if you live up to the title.”

“It is a very high bar to meet,” Cedric mused playfully. “I’ll need to do something dramatic to prove myself. Compose a sonnet for you or something.”

“Gods, please don’t,” Harry blurted in panic. 

Cedric raised an amused brow.

Harry averted his eyes in embarrassment and murmured, “Too much attention.”

“Harry,” Cedric chuckled. “I wasn’t planning on reading it in the Great Hall.”

“Oh,” Harry said, suddenly feeling foolish. “Right.”

“Noted, though,” Cedric said with mock gravity. “Keep romantic gestures private.”

Harry bit his lip—his brain freezing at the mention of romantic gestures.  

Like there were many to come.

Cedric’s eyes sparkled. “Let’s see… how else can I prove that I’m worthy…” he tapped his chin theatrically. “A heroic act, perhaps? I could rescue a kneazle—or duel in defense of your honor.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “In defense of my ‘honor?’ What am I, a princess?”  

“That would fit well with the Golden Prince theme,” Cedric goaded.

Harry scowled.

Cedric chuckled. “What am I saying? Like you can’t fight your own battles.” His gaze lingered, warm and a little admiring. “You’ve faced dragons. And worse than dragons.”

Harry felt his face go hot. 

As though suddenly drawn in, Cedric leaned forward—close enough for Harry to count every one of his pale eyelashes. His fingers reached up, brushing a trail from Harry’s nose to the edge of his ear. “There it is again,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen someone blush all the way to the tip of their nose like that.”

Harry’s heart was no longer inside his chest. It had, quite definitively, flown away.

Cedric leaned a fraction closer, the warmth of his breath brushing across Harry’s mouth. “Harry…” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry blinked at him, wide-eyed and hopeful and terrified.

“I’d like to kiss you.” 

“O-okay,” Harry breathed.

Cedric closed the distance slowly, and Harry’s eyes fluttered shut.

The kiss was soft—barely more than gentle brushes and presses of lips—but it was the kind of touch that rearranged the air between them. Harry’s thoughts turned syrupy and unhelpful: Cedric tasted like cider… his lips were warm and plush…

When they parted, Cedric lingered close, his eyes still fixed on Harry’s lips.

“You taste like cinnamon,” Cedric said, his voice hazy.

“Pretty sure that’s the cider,” Harry murmured, before biting his lip shyly. 

Cedric brushed his thumb over the caught lip, and Harry released it with a faint, breathy sound.

Cedric leaned in again and kissed it briefly, making Harry go dizzy with bliss again.

After a beat, Cedric whispered with a sheepish smile. “I really do have to water a bunch of plants.”

“Plants, right,” Harry repeated dazedly. 

“C’mon.”

Cedric stood and offered him a hand. When Harry took it, Cedric’s fingers laced easily between his. Harry had the sudden, irrational thought that he never wanted to wear mittens again.

They wandered back through the house, Cedric leading him from one sunlit corner to another. A greenhouse room on the second floor glowed green and gold, and Harry helped carry watering cans and point out the droopiest-looking ferns. Their conversation slowly found an easy rhythm—little jokes and quiet questions, pauses that didn’t feel awkward.

Cedric chatted freely about all sorts of things. Harry learned that his mum was a Healer at St. Mungo’s, and his favorite person in the whole world. His dad—who Harry had met at the Quidditch World Cup—worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures; Cedric had less to say about him. He had no siblings or cousins, but wished he did. 

Harry listened with real interest, nodding along until Cedric asked, “What about your family?”

Harry hesitated. His fingers tightened slightly around the handle of his watering can. “I live with my aunt and uncle,” he said eventually. “They’re muggles.” He shrugged. “It’s… complicated.”

Cedric didn’t press. He just nodded and changed the topic with a nonchalance that Harry admired and appreciated: 

“I’ve been meaning to tell you—you’ve got good taste in robes,” he said, nudging Harry’s shoulder lightly.

Harry laughed. “This is all Hermione’s doing—she staged an intervention.”

They kept talking. About everything and nothing. About plants and spells and Quidditch teams and the best sweets at Honeydukes. The longer they wandered, the less Harry worried about what to say. He was still awkward, still nervous, but the edges of it were softening.

And every time Cedric’s hand brushed his—every time they smiled at the same time—Harry thought:

He could live a hundred lifetimes and never tire of this feeling.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Harry was an adorable, lovestruck mess when he returned to Gryffindor Tower. Hermione—fairly certain that he had just had his first kiss—couldn’t help but compare this Harry to the one in the original timeline; the one whose first kiss was with a crying, heartbroken girl.

This was definitely better.

She didn’t pry. (At least, not yet.) He was far too adorable—drifting around the common room in a soft, pink-cheeked haze—to be pestered for details.

Instead, Hermione curled up in the armchair near the fire with her notes and quietly pulled out her list.

The List—capital L—had been a bit absurd at first. Scrawled hastily in the Room of Requirement during her very first week back in time, it had read more like a fever dream of what she might fill her time with while waiting for key events to be set in motion:

Checklist for Fourth Year (Version 4):
Operation Make-Life-Marginally-Better:
– Do not let Cedric Diggory die (preferably at all, but especially not in front of Harry)
– Learn Occlumency
– Keep Harry alive through the Tournament (again)
– Help Harry realize he fancies Ginny sooner (Yule Ball, maybe?)
– Prevent Ron from turning into a jealous prat
– Encourage better study habits in Harry and Ron (without “nagging”; try incentives?)
– Intervene sparingly with fake-Moody’s child-endangerment (ferret incident excluded)
– Break Neville’s wand
– Threaten Skeeter sooner
– Befriend Luna sooner
– Convince Padfoot to stay in a real house with food instead of a cave

Not letting Cedric Diggory die had always been the most important change to make in fourth year.

Most of the rest had already resolved—either in success, failure, or irrelevance. Harry was doing all his homework without complaint now that Ron wasn’t distracting him. Ginny seemed more amused by Harry than smitten, and Hermione had a hunch she might have her eye on someone else anyway. Luna and Neville were in better shape than ever. Rita Skeeter had fled the country after a well-timed, very specific threat involving glass jars and beetles—although that hadn’t stopped the Daily Prophet from being an absolute gossip rag (but Harry’s new solicitor would see to that soon). As for Ron... well. That situation had decayed beyond salvaging. 

But Cedric.

Keeping Cedric alive had always been at the top of the list—back when Hermione thought of him as a brave, kind-hearted acquaintance whose death had shattered Harry in ways no one quite understood.

Now?

Now she saw the way Harry looked at him. She saw the flushed smiles and nervous stares and barely-suppressed swooning. She saw hope.

Now, she had to save Cedric because if she didn’t… Harry would be even worse-off than last time.

The List had been rewritten. Stripped down. Refined.

What remained—what mattered—was:

– Keep Harry and Cedric alive through the graveyard
– Determine the implications of Harry having the Elder Wand early

Lying in bed that night, Hermione stared at the canopy above her bed and turned over every version of the future she could imagine. There were some things she couldn't change—Harry had to be in the graveyard for the ritual. He had to have his blood forcibly taken if Voldemort was to have a (killable) body again. That much, fate seemed to demand.

But what came after... that, she could alter.

Harry couldn’t duel Voldemort. Not with the Elder Wand. Without the brother wand advantage, everything became too dangerous—too unpredictable. He could wind up dead… Voldemort could wind up with the Elder Wand…

No. Not an option.

And if Cedric went with Harry again, the risk to his life was just as high. Wormtail could immediately hit him with a Killing Curse—like the first time. But ensuring he didn’t touch the Cup could go wrong in so many ways.

Which left only one answer.

Someone had to be there. Someone had to ensure Cedric Diggory was never seen by Wormtail and Voldemort. Someone had to ensure Harry escaped after the ritual but before the duel.

That someone… would have to be her.

Hermione rolled onto her side, pulled the covers up to her chin, and whispered into the darkness:

“I’m going to the graveyard.”

“You are absolutely not going to that graveyard.”

Hermione blinked blearily at Theodore Nott’s sapphire-blue eyes, her brain sluggish from a night of tossing and turning and plotting. She had been rushing to breakfast when a pair of hands roughly dragged her into a hidden alcove.

“How did you…?”

Theodore Nott cut her off with a glower. “You were in the graveyard. In my dream last night. That’s never happened before.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped.

“And?” she said, voice hesitant.

“You died,” Theo said flatly.

A beat.

Hermione swallowed. “Well. Shit.”

“Exactly.”

There was a silence, weighted and bristling.

Then Theo, brows drawn tight, said, “You’re not going.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Excuse me?”

“I said, you’re not going,” Theo repeated. “You are not setting foot in that graveyard.”

Hermione stared at him, stunned. “Did you just tell me what to do?”

Theo hesitated. “I—”

“Because it sounded like a command.” Her voice was rising with every word. “Like you get to decide where I go and what I risk!”

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“You don’t get to mean anything about it! You don’t get to stand there with your cryptic little warnings and your blue-eyed brooding and think that gives you the right to control what I do with my choices, my timeline, and my friends!”

She shoved past him, fury in her bones, already halfway into the corridor—

But Theo caught her wrist. 

Just firmly enough to make her stop, to get her to look at him. His voice, when it came, was quieter. Steadier.

“I’m sorry—that was the wrong way to go about that,” he said, his expression contrite. “I should know better, but seeing my future screw-ups doesn’t always translate into not making mistakes in the present.” 

He cleared his throat, then said with a kind of certainty, “You don’t need me to tell you what to do.” His thumb caressed her knuckles lightly. “But you do need to know what I saw.”

Hermione hesitated for a moment, then gave a faint nod of her head.

Theo let go of her hand and leaned back against the wall, face drawn and voice low. “You were in the graveyard. That was new—you’ve never been there before. It started the same way it always does: Potter and Diggory arrived by Portkey, disoriented and already on edge. And then—” he swallowed, “—you were there, sprinting out of the dark like you knew exactly what was coming. You tried to throw an invisibility cloak over Diggory—he was half-fighting you, confused. Potter was yelling, ‘What the hell, ’Mione?’ asking what was going on...”

He paused, jaw tight.

“And then the first curse came. A flash of green—no warning. You dropped.”

Hermione went very still.

Theo’s eyes met hers, sharp with something like anger laced through grief. “And then another spell flew toward Diggory—and Potter stepped in front of it.”

A beat.

“I don’t know what happened to Diggory. The dream cut off after that.” He gave a frustrated sort of shrug. “I think we could hazard a guess, though.”

“Right,” she muttered. “So that’s clearly a bad plan.”

Theo huffed a relieved laugh. “Yeah.”

Hermione bit her lip and began pacing, her mind whirring through options. “How many times have you seen the graveyard?”

Theo’s expression sobered. “Dozens of times. More than anything else. Most things I see once or twice. But the graveyard is a splintering mess.” He raked a hand through his hair, and said with a wry smile, “Probably because you keep fucking with it.”

She frowned. “So it’s the biggest point of uncertainty.”

“I suppose.” 

Hermione nodded. “So we can use this. If I tweak my strategy, you can check what happens.”

“Hermione,” Theo said with forced patience. “I’m not a crystal ball.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not suggesting you are—but if you see which strategies pan out, then I’ll know how to ensure we all survive.”

Theo’s frustration boiled over. “It doesn’t work that way—you can’t ‘ensure’ anything.” He stalked toward her, expression fervent. “I even make a game of it sometimes—changing little things to see what happens. In Scrivenshaft’s, I didn’t see myself plucking down your bottle of turquoise ink. I saw you picking it from the shelf yourself. But I wanted to surprise you, so when the moment came I grabbed it before you could—just for fun.”

“Oh.” Hermione gave a sigh of disappointment. “That… complicates things.”

“Yeah,” Theo said, deadpan. “You think?”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of uncertainty settling between them like a fog.

“So,” Hermione scuffed her shoe against the flagstones in frustration, “I can’t fix it.”

Theo leaned back against the stone wall again, tipping his head up like the answers were written on the ceiling. “I don’t know. Maybe you can. Maybe you’ve already fixed something and we just don’t know it yet. But I can’t give you a checklist and a guaranteed outcome, Granger. That’s not how this works.”

She hated that. Every word of it. Her whole life was checklists and outcomes. Cause and effect. Strategy and execution.

“And yet,” Theo added, eyes flicking back to her, “you’re still going to try anyway.”

“Of course I am!” Hermione said sharply, but the fire in her tone was more defensive than angry. “I have to.”

Theo studied her for a moment. “You’re not doing this just to win the war, are you?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You’re doing this for Potter,” Theo said, quiet and certain.

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t look away. “I’m doing this for everyone.”

“But mostly for him.”

“I’m doing it for both,” Hermione snapped. “I’m not interested in a version where we win the war but Harry dies to make it happen, alright?”

Silence stretched between them.

Theo sighed and kicked at a loose stone on the floor. “You’re not wrong to care that much. He’s… hard not to care about. But if you throw yourself into that graveyard without thinking—without backup, without letting anyone else help—you’re going to die, and it won’t save him.”

Hermione bristled. “You say that like I’m just being reckless.”

Theo gave her a look.

“I’m not,” she insisted. “I’m being methodical. I’m planning.”

“You’re planning like someone who’s already decided they’re the sacrifice,” he said flatly.

Hermione flinched. The words landed too close to home.

Theo’s voice softened. “I’m not asking you to stop. I’m asking you to stop trying to do it alone.”

Something in her chest cracked a little. She didn’t answer.

Instead, after a long pause, she said, “You know, I thought coming back would make everything easier. That I’d know what to change, what to protect. That I could save everyone if I did everything just right.”

Theo tilted his head, a small, humorless smile on his face. “And now?”

“Now I think I’m in way over my head.”

A beat passed.

“You really saw me die?” Hermione finally asked. 

Theo didn’t look away. “Yeah.”

“And it… bothered you.”

That startled a laugh out of him—dry, a little incredulous. “Brightest witch of her age, aren’t you?”

Hermione scowled. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” Theo said, the humor fading into something quieter. He shifted his weight, gaze suddenly evasive. “You show up in a lot of the visions I see. Not just the end-of-the-world ones. The other ones, too.”

She swallowed. “What kind of other ones?”

He shrugged, too casually. “You know. Normal ones. Boring ones. Future ones.” A beat. “The kind I’d like to keep.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed, hot and sudden. “Oh.”

Theo didn’t look at her, but there was the faintest curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “So yeah. It bothered me.”

They stood in silence for another moment, Hermione watching Theo with a dizzying flutter in her chest.

“...Okay,” she said softly.

He looked up. “Okay?”

She chewed on her lip. “Okay… I’ll let you help me. I won’t charge into the graveyard and try to fix everything all on my own.” She fixed him with a firm look. “But I’m not standing back, either.”

“Fair,” Theo said, surprisingly gentle.

She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. “You’re not going to try to forbid me again, are you?”

“Merlin, no,” he muttered. “Learned my lesson.”

She gave him a dry smile. “Good.”

They walked to the Great Hall in silence, side by side, shoulders nearly brushing. Neither said anything, but something between them had shifted—solidified.

At the doors, they paused. Hermione nodded awkwardly, and Theo gave a small, lopsided smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then he turned and strode toward the Slytherin table without a word.

Hermione exhaled slowly and made her way toward the Gryffindor end of the hall, which was nearly deserted. It was the tail end of breakfast; only a few stragglers remained, picking at toast or scribbling out last-minute homework.

Harry sat near the middle, hunched over a bowl of porridge that he was making no move to eat. His expression was dazed, like his brain had never quite returned from the night before.

Hermione slid onto the bench across from him. “You’re looking… alert.”

Harry blinked at her, eyes glassy. “What?”

She smirked at him. “I take it the maybe-date went well.”

Harry’s cheeks went pink. He dropped his gaze to his porridge, which he still wasn’t eating.

“We’re meeting tonight to work on the egg.”

“Mm,” Hermione said, reaching for a scone. “And how much actual egg-related work do you anticipate happening?”

Harry made a valiant attempt at looking innocent. “Loads,” he said, too quickly.

Hermione rolled her eyes and broke her scone in half. “Just don’t let him distract you so much that you miss curfew.”

Harry’s smile turned sheepish. “No promises.”

The library was unusually quiet for a Sunday afternoon. Most students were still outside enjoying the last of the weekend sun—or tucked into the common rooms pretending to study. But Hermione was deep in the Arithmancy Section, hunched over a thick volume titled Arcane Wards of the Mind and Soul: A Treatise on Magical Obfuscation, muttering to herself.

The book was older than she liked, with cramped handwriting and unnecessarily dramatic diagrams, but it was the best she could do without access to the Restricted Section.

Which would require sneaking in with Theo.

Which she was avoiding.

She turned another brittle page and scribbled a note in the margin of her parchment. “Suppressive enchantments layered with ambient aetheric noise... that could work,” she muttered. “Assuming the caster doesn’t use blood magic. Merlin, why does every advanced spell assume you have a vial of blood just lying around?”

She paused, tapping the quill against her chin.

What she had learned about Theo’s visions had rattled her. Not because Theo knew things that were going to happen, but because if Theo could see parts of the future, who else could too?  

The idea of someone, somewhere, scrying on Harry—tracking his movements, listening to his conversations, maybe even predicting how he’d act—made her stomach twist. 

It was making her slightly (very) paranoid.

And perhaps most insultingly of all, it meant she had to take Divination seriously.

Hermione let out a soft, despairing groan, and dropped her forehead to the table. “Of all the fields of magic,” she mumbled to the tabletop, “why did Divination have to be real?”

“Well, if it isn’t Hogwarts’ most industrious Mudblood.”

Hermione didn’t even look up from her book. “Charmed, as always, Malfoy.”

Malfoy stepped into the aisle between the library tables, hands in the pockets of his pressed robes, wearing the smug sort of sneer that suggested he’d spent all morning rehearsing it. “Tell me, Granger. Are you studying so hard to impress Nott, or is it just your usual desperation to prove you belong?”

Hermione turned a page with exaggerated calm. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“Oh, nothing.” His voice was syrupy. “Just wondering how long you think that little charade is going to last. You do know what families like his want, don’t you? I doubt you’ll find it in a library book.” He leaned closer. “Though maybe you’ll be the footnote in one. The pretty little cautionary tale about witches who aimed above their station.”

That got her to close her book, carefully. “You sound jealous.”

Malfoy scoffed. “You think I’m interested in Nott? Hardly.”

Hermione shrugged. “Or me.”

Malfoy’s face twisted. “You’re delusional,” he snapped. “No one would want you except to—”

A flash of light hit him mid-sentence. There was a loud thump as Malfoy collapsed to the floor, unconscious—and, quite suddenly, bright purple from head to toe.

Hermione blinked and spun around.

Theo stood a few paces behind her, wand still lazily raised. He walked forward, brushed a speck of lint off the bench, and sat down across from her like this was the most natural thing in the world. He pulled out a half-finished Potions essay and began reviewing it without a word.

Hermione gaped at him. “You hexed him.”

“Mmm,” Theo hummed, jotting something in the margin. “He was being loud.”

She stared for another beat, then glanced at Malfoy, who was snoring lightly and still extremely purple. “Should we… do something?”

Theo finally looked up, entirely unbothered. “If we leave him there, he’ll miss his date with Pansy. That feels like justice.”

Hermione snorted before she could stop herself. “What about the purple?”

“Hard to say how long it will last,” Theo said, flipping a page. “Three days, maybe four.”

Hermione blinked again. Then she calmly picked up her quill and went back to her notes.

After a few minutes, Theo nodded toward the book in front of her. “If you’re planning to use any of those counter-scrying spells on Potter, I should warn you—it’ll block me too.”

Hermione frowned. “I was hoping to find something that would filter who gets through. Only protect him from everyone else.”

Theo shrugged. “If such a thing exists, I haven’t seen it.”

She let out a groan. “Bloody Divination.”

Theo just smiled.

They fell into quiet work again—at least until Theo shifted, then cleared his throat in a way that made Hermione glance up sharply. He looked uncharacteristically hesitant, though he hid it well.

“I believe that Krum is going to ask you to the Yule Ball soon,” he said, almost casually. “Maybe even today.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh.”

“I’m not going to ask you. Not yet,” Theo said, with a crooked smile. “I have a feeling you would say no.”

She didn’t contradict him.

“But,” he continued, tone softer now, “if I could ask a favor… maybe don’t say yes to him, either.”

Hermione paused, quill hovering mid-air.

She hadn’t planned to say yes to Viktor Krum if he asked—not this time around. She’d admired him once, even liked the way he’d spoken to her like she mattered, like she was clever rather than just convenient. But it had always been a short-lived thing, born of flattery and escapism during a self-conscious period of her adolescence. In this timeline, she didn’t need that escape. 

Still… it was one thing to quietly decide for herself. It was another entirely for her to say no because Theodore Nott had asked her to.

Her eyes narrowed—not in irritation, but in a squint of reluctant curiosity. “Why?” she asked, the question slipping out more gently than she'd intended.

Theo didn't answer right away. He just watched her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched like he might smirk—but didn’t. Not this time.

And that, more than anything, made her lean forward just slightly, waiting.

“Because a month from now,” he said wryly, “things will be different.”

Her heart gave a peculiar flutter. “Different how?”

He smiled, sly and unreadable. “I think you’ll enjoy it more if I don’t spoil the surprise.”

Chapter Text

Harry

Harry arrived at the Astronomy Tower with his golden egg tucked under one arm and his invisibility cloak pulled tight around him. It wasn’t necessary—not really. Curfew wasn’t for another hour, and the corridors were quiet this late on a Sunday—but the egg was like a miniature sun of embarrassment, drawing every stare and whisper in a five-meter radius. Better to go unseen.

He pushed open the heavy tower door and stepped into the open night. The wind met him with a chilly nip, and the faintest drizzle hung in the air, misting his glasses.

Cedric was already there, seated cross-legged on a cushion near the far balustrade. His own egg rested beside him, untouched. Suspended in the air before him was a glowing orb of light, no larger than an apple, warm and golden in the darkness. Cedric was muttering under his breath and directing the light with his wand; the sphere shifted shapes with each motion—stretching tall, bending in on itself—before snapping back into its original form like a rubber band.

“Hi,” Harry said with a faint smile, pulling the cloak off his head and shaking the water droplets from it.

“Bloody—!” Cedric jerked so hard he nearly dropped his wand. “You can’t just materialize like that—I nearly hexed you!”

Harry fought against a smirk. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Cedric let out a breath and gave him a lingering side-eye. “You did. Spectacularly.”

Harry walked over, shrugging sheepishly as he held up the cloak in one hand. “Hard not to sneak when you’re wearing this.”

Cedric’s gaze latched onto it immediately. “Is that… an invisibility cloak?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

Cedric stood, stepping closer to examine it. “I’ve never actually seen one before. That’s—wow.”

Harry held it out a little. “It was my dad’s.”

That made Cedric pause. His expression shifted, a thread of reverence weaving into his voice. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, quieter now. “He left it with Dumbledore before—well, before everything.”

Cedric nodded slowly, his gaze still on the shimmering folds of fabric. “That’s… incredible.”

There was a quiet moment, punctuated by the soft tap of drizzle against stone.

“So, uh,” Harry said, nodding toward the hovering orb, “what’s that?”

Cedric brightened a little. “Oh—just a project I’ve been working on. Kind of a better version of Lumos. It’s a light source that follows you around—hands-free.” He began walking the perimeter of the tower, and the light bobbed along behind him like a curious Snitch.

Harry watched it bounce in step with Cedric’s movements, entranced equally by the easy grace of Cedric’s gait as by the charm itself. “That’s brilliant,” he said. “You were trying to make it… shift shape?”

“Yeah. Thought maybe I could turn it into something fun. Like a little animal or something.”

“Like a Patronus?”

Cedric grinned over his shoulder. “Exactly. But without the dementor-fighting bonus. Or the exhaustion.”

Harry frowned. “Exhaustion?”

Cedric turned back toward him, the ball of light orbiting his shoulder like a moon. “You do know most of us can’t just whip out a fully-formed Patronus without, like, three Chocolate Frogs or a two-hour nap afterwards, right?”

“Oh,” Harry said, abashed. “I didn’t mean to sound—”

“No, no—” Cedric interrupted, his voice warm. “I meant it as a compliment, Harry. You’re just… kind of ridiculously capable. Even if you have no idea.”

Harry made a face and looked down at his egg. “If you say so.”

Cedric smiled and conjured a second cushion with a flick of his wand. “Here.”

They sat. The soft glow cast warm shadows over the stones. Drizzle beaded in Cedric’s hair, like morning dew.

Cedric drummed his fingers once, twice, on his golden egg. “Hey, Harry?”

Harry looked up, anxiety and anticipation doing a frantic waltz in his chest. “Yeah?”

Cedric exhaled. “This is going to sound a bit awkward, but—my mum wrote to me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s pretty… er… intuitive. Put together that I might—” his amber eyes flicked to Harry’s, then skittered away “—like you.”

Harry’s mouth popped open, startled, as Cedric’s cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink.

“Anyway,” Cedric continued, a bit too fast, “she reminded me that I’m a bit older than you—even if it doesn’t feel like it—and said I should make sure you know there’s no pressure. About anything. Especially, er… kissing.”

“Oh,” Harry said, his own face heating.

“So if you don’t want—”

“—No I want!” Harry blurted.

He felt his ears turn scarlet, horrified at his outburst. “I mean—I like the—er—the kissing.” He made a mortified sound and buried his face in his hands, mumbling, “So—er—please… keep kissing me.” 

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Cedric laughed—quiet, delighted—and gently reached over to pull Harry’s hands away from his face.

He leaned in close, eyes dancing. “Well,” he said warmly, “if you insist.”

And he kissed him.

Soft and sure and just a little lingering, like he meant it.

Harry made a small, startled noise in the back of his throat before his brain caught up. He lifted one tentative hand, fingers threading into Cedric’s hair at the nape of his neck, and felt the pleased hum Cedric gave in response reverberate through his chest.

It was warm—but only where Cedric touched him. Everywhere else, the night was damp and cold. But Harry barely noticed. Not with Cedric’s mouth moving so gently against his, like he had all the time in the world.

Harry’s thoughts fizzed away.

All he could think was: More. Please more.

They stayed close after the kiss, noses almost brushing.

“You, um…” Harry huffed a small, dazed sigh. “You’re… really… good at that. Kissing. I mean. I really like…” 

Cedric smiled, soft and unmistakably fond. “Yeah?”

Harry nodded mutely.

Cedric leaned in just enough that Harry could feel the warmth of him again. “Good. Because I’d like to do it again.”

This time, it wasn’t cautious or tentative—it was confident, like a promise. Cedric’s hands both came up to cup Harry’s jaw, thumbs brushing gently at the edges, and Harry felt something inside him go weightless. He reached up almost instinctively, fingers curling into Cedric’s collar, holding on. Cedric’s mouth moved with his, deeper now, a little more searching.

It was still soft, still careful—but it sparked heat beneath Harry’s skin, that dizzy, dizzy sense of everything tilting toward bliss.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were a little breathless. 

“Oh,” Harry breathed, as if that explained something.

Cedric rested his forehead lightly against Harry’s. “Yeah,” he said, smiling. “Oh.”

They stayed like that for a few quiet seconds. The soft patter of drizzle continued around them. The light orb gently bobbed nearby, like it was politely waiting on them.

Eventually, Cedric pulled back slightly, though he didn’t go far. “If we keep doing that,” he said, voice low and amused, “we’ll get absolutely nothing done.”

Harry bit his lip. “Fair point.”

Cedric laughed. He nudged Harry’s golden egg with one foot. “So in the spirit of pretending we’re being productive…”

“Right.” Harry reached for the egg. “Puzzle time.”

They exchanged an eager look, and then, with nervous anticipation, Harry unclasped the egg.

The noise hit instantly—an earsplitting, metallic wail that rebounded and amplified off the stone tower and pierced through Harry’s skull like a curse. He clapped his hands over his ears instinctively—the egg rolling away. Cedric had done the same, eyes wide.

Cedric shouted over the noise, “Is yours broken?!”

Harry scrambled to where the egg had settled and slammed it shut with a snap. Silence returned like a weighted blanket, and they both sat there blinking.

“…Well that was awful,” Harry said hoarsely.

Cedric eyed his own egg warily. “Do you reckon mine sounds the same?”

They both stared at it.

Then—resigned—Cedric popped it open.

The same blood-curdling shriek filled the air, and this time it seemed even louder, if that was possible. Harry barely managed to cover his ears in time.

Cedric was laughing when he finally got it closed, the sound slightly breathless and half-pained from the auditory assault. “Right, well. The Astronomy Tower was clearly the worst possible place to open these.”

Harry’s laugh cracked out before he could stop it—sharp and startled. He looked over at Cedric and immediately felt the air knock out of him. Cedric was grinning, bright and unguarded, cheeks flushed from the cold and laughter, his cheeks dimpling.

Something about it twined in Harry’s chest—warm and aching and ridiculous.

“What,” Cedric said, still catching his breath.

“Nothing.” Harry shook his head, smiling into his knees. “Just. You have a nice laugh.”

They sat there for a moment longer, rain misting down around them as the last echoes of the eggs' screams faded into memory.

Harry smiled helplessly. “What do we do now?”

“Whatever we want, I suppose.” Cedric moved so that they were sitting side by side, shoulders bumping gently. “Talk.”

“About…?”

Cedric shrugged. “Anything.” 

They sat watching the soft glow of Cedric’s enchanted orb drift lazily in the rain. 

Feeling a vague, restless pressure to fill the silence, Harry blurted, “Is getting someone a book on mental well-being for Christmas bad form?”

Cedric glanced over, surprised but clearly curious. “Depends on the someone?”

“Hermione,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “She was… going through something earlier this term. I’m not really sure what, but she was off for a while. Just—sad, I think. And tired. She’s been better lately, though. Still, I thought… she loves reading. And it’s a good book. I read a bit of it to make sure.” He paused. “But maybe that’s a depressing gift.”

Cedric was quiet for a moment. Then, he said: “I think it depends on the message that comes with it. If it’s like—‘Here, this will fix you’—yeah, that’s grim. But if it’s ‘You matter, and I thought this might help on the hard days’—well, that’s kind of lovely.”

Harry looked down at his hands. “Yeah. The second one. That’s what I meant.”

“Then I think she’ll understand.”

They lapsed into a quiet moment again, the rain soft and constant around them.

Cedric leaned back on his hands, gazing up into the overcast sky. “I wish I was going home for the holidays.”

“You’re staying here?” Harry asked, brow knitting.

“Yeah—for the first time ever. My mum and I usually bake a ton of things we shouldn’t eat, decorate the whole house, and argue about her taste in holiday music…” He trailed off with a fond smile, then shrugged. “But she’s traveling to Granada to visit my aunt this year, and, anyway, there’s the Ball.”

Harry hesitated. “So… you’re going?”

Cedric turned to him, bemused. “Harry... You know the Champions have to open the Ball with a dance, right?”

Harry stared at him, horrified.

Cedric smirked. “Ah. You didn’t know.”

“No! I—no one told me that!” Harry spluttered. “We have to dance? In front of everyone?”

Cedric looked like he was trying not to laugh. “It’s not that bad.”

“It is that bad—I don’t know how to dance, Cedric!”

“Well,” Cedric said, lips quirking as he rose to his feet, “lucky for you…” He offered a hand. “I do.”

Harry eyed him warily. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Harry let himself be pulled up. Cedric’s hand was warm in his. 

“You’re not going to laugh at me?” Harry asked warily.

“Only if you do something really embarrassing,” Cedric teased.

Harry scowled. “Not helping.”

Cedric stepped closer, positioning Harry’s hands gently—one clasped in his own, the other guided to rest on Cedric’s shoulder. “Just follow my lead.”

The light orb hovered nearby, casting them in a soft, golden halo of misting rain. They swayed slowly, the only sound the patter of drizzle and the occasional hoot of a passing owl.

“See?” Cedric murmured. “Not so bad.”

Harry’s heart was going far too fast. “Easy for you to say. You know how to lead.”

“Exactly.” Cedric’s smile was quiet, sure. “I’ll lead, and you’ll forget about the entire school watching us.”

With a skittering kind of hope in his chest, Harry looked up at Cedric’s amber eyes. “…Us?”

Cedric quirked an eyebrow. “Merlin, Harry. You’re quick with a wand, but painfully slow at this.”

Harry flushed. “So you want to—”

“Yes,” Cedric said, already leaning in.

The kiss was soft, rain-speckled, familiar and new all at once. And when it ended, Cedric rested his cheek against Harry’s and whispered in his ear, “I thought that was obvious.”

By the time Harry peeled himself out of the Hufflepuff dorm corridor, it was well past curfew. He and Cedric had made a valiant (but ridiculous) attempt to fit under the invisibility cloak together. There’d been a lot of shuffling and bumping and suppressed laughter, and at one point Cedric’s arm had wound securely around Harry’s waist to keep them moving in step.

Harry was fairly certain he could die happy now.

The castle was quiet as he slipped through its halls, warmth still curling in his chest like a contented cat. He strode through the Entrance Hall, nearly to the staircase that would take him up to Gryffindor Tower, when a jarring sound halted him in his tracks.

The clunk of a wooden leg on stone.

Mad-Eye Moody emerged from the shadows near the great oak doors, looking like he’d just come in from the grounds. His coat was damp, and he was glancing around with sharp, suspicious eyes.

Harry froze.

Moody’s magical eye swiveled, locking onto Harry instantly despite the invisibility cloak.

“Potter,” Moody growled. “Off with that thing.”

Harry winced and pulled the cloak off, holding it awkwardly in one hand. His golden egg was clutched in the other. “Professor—I was just—”

“Spare me,” Moody barked, already turning. “My office. Now.”

Dread unspooled in Harry’s stomach as he trailed behind. Of course this would be the end of his good evening—detention, probably, or worse.

But when they reached Moody’s cluttered, gloomy office, the man just slumped into his chair with a grunt and gestured for Harry to sit.

“Well?” Moody said. “How’s the egg?”

Harry blinked. “The… oh. Right. Um. Loud. Really loud. Haven’t gotten much farther than ‘Ow, my ears.’”

Moody let out a grunt. “Then I suggest you find a way to dampen the sound, Potter.”

Harry stared blankly at him.

“Loud. Dampen. Think it through, boy.”

Harry nodded slowly, still not quite following, but unwilling to admit it. “Right. Okay. Thanks.”

Moody waved him off, barking, “Go on, then. And stay out of sight next time—you’re not the only one sneaking around after dark.”

Harry bolted from the office, confused but profoundly relieved. No detention, no questions about where he had been… or who he had been there with.

Just a cryptic comment about eggs and… dampening sound.

“Right,” Harry muttered as he crept back toward Gryffindor Tower, “very helpful.”

It was later that week, just after dinner, when Harry took his Firebolt out for a solo flight. The sky had long since darkened, and the grounds had emptied of other students. Harry had stayed late—edging just past curfew—looping and weaving on his Firebolt until his fingers were nearly numb from the windchill. His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, and the exhaustion in his limbs was the good kind.

He had just landed near the broom shed, preparing to stow his Firebolt, when a massive, shaggy black dog bounded into view.

“Padfoot,” Harry breathed, grinning.

The dog trotted closer, tail flicking once in greeting, before nosing the door of the broom shed open. Harry slipped inside after him.

With a shimmer of movement, the dog was gone and in its place stood Sirius Black, looking windblown, underfed, and thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Nice flying,” Sirius said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “You’re looking more and more like James every time I see you.”

“You really have to stop sneaking in,” Harry said, even as he hugged him. “Someone’s going to catch you.”

“Relax, Harry. I’m careful.”

At that exact moment, the door banged open.

“It’s past curfew, Potter. I’ll have to take—” 

Ernie Macmillan strode into the shed with the unmistakable air of a prefect on a power trip—chest puffed full of righteous authority. He wore a thick wool scarf looped around his neck and had his Herbology sketchpad clutched under one arm. He stopped mid-sentence, eyes going wide.

He’d clearly been out documenting moon-triggered plant behavior—Professor Sprout had mentioned something about a lunar bloom assignment earlier in the week...

Ernie’s eyes landed on Sirius Black—very much human, very much wanted—and went comically wide. “That’s—” his voice rose an octave. “That’s Sirius Black!”

“Ernie, wait—!”

But Ernie was already bolting back toward the castle.

“Ernie! Wait! It’s not—he isn’t—bloody hell!”

Harry took off after him, sprinting across the grounds, heart hammering. Ernie had a head start, but Harry was faster. He gained ground as they neared the castle, but not fast enough.

The front doors flew open ahead of them, and Ernie didn’t even hesitate—he charged inside and disappeared around the corner.

By the time Harry burst into the staff corridor, panting and red-faced, it was too late.

Ernie was standing in the open doorway of the staff room, breathless and pompous. Inside, Professors Snape, Vector, and Flitwick looked up from a shared evening tea service.

“There’s a fugitive on school grounds!” Ernie blurted. “Harry Potter’s hiding Sirius Black in the broom shed!”

Snape rose from his seat at once, face unreadable but eyes alight with something that might have been satisfaction.

Flitwick squeaked and knocked over the sugar bowl.

“Mr. Macmillan,” Snape said smoothly, “why don’t you lead the way?”

Harry opened his mouth—and promptly shut it again.

This was bad.

Really, really bad.

Harry sat in the high-backed chair across from Dumbledore’s desk, very pointedly trying to become one with the upholstery.

Around him, an argument was in full swing.

“I still don’t understand how he breached the wards!” Professor Vector said sharply, arms crossed.

“Animagus,” Snape snapped, nose wrinkled like he’d smelled something foul. “Do try to keep up.”

Flitwick’s voice piped up from near the hearth. “And as we’ve now been made aware, he was never actually guilty. A tragic miscarriage of justice.”

“That doesn’t excuse risking the safety of the entire school,” Vector said tightly. “Regardless of his innocence, the Ministry would hardly see it that way.”

Harry stared hard at the floor, hoping it might open and swallow him whole.

(It didn’t.)

“Enough,” Dumbledore said, calm but firm. The noise settled instantly. “Black is no longer on the grounds. The immediate risk has passed.”

Snape gave a disdainful snort. “And we’re simply going to ignore the fact that Potter has been aiding and abetting a fugitive?”

“I didn’t—!” Harry started, indignant. He clenched his fists in his lap. “I didn’t even know he was coming. I didn’t ask him to come, I didn’t help him sneak in, I—” He stopped himself before the “I was just flying” bit could spill out and make him sound even more like a twelve-year-old caught nicking treacle tart.

Snape’s lip curled. “And yet he appeared. You conveniently ‘happened’ upon him. Please.”

“I agree there should be consequences,” Dumbledore said mildly, as if Harry weren’t currently fantasizing about hurling a chair through a stained glass window. “Which is why Harry will serve detention.”

Snape’s eyes gleamed. “I would be happy to supervise—”

“With me,” Dumbledore interrupted smoothly.

Snape’s expression soured like spoiled milk.

Harry slumped a little lower in his chair. Brilliant. A detention with Dumbledore. At least it wasn’t Snape.

Dumbledore folded his hands. “If there are no further concerns… Harry, you’re dismissed.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He stood, muttered a, “Thank you, sir,” and bolted for the door.

He had barely made it halfway back to Gryffindor Tower when someone stepped out from behind a tapestry like they’d been waiting for him.

“Merlin’s bloody—” Harry clutched at his chest. “Do you ever just walk into a conversation like a normal person?”

Nott, looking insufferably pleased with himself, fell into step beside him. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Harry didn’t answer. He was too busy quickening his pace in the hopes that Nott would take the hint.

No such luck.

“I need your help,” Nott said.

Harry groaned. “What could you possibly need my help for?”

Nott shrugged. “It’s about Hermione.”

Harry gave him a sidelong glance. “What about Hermione?”

“There’s a party in the Hufflepuff common room Friday night. Neutral ground, if you will,” Nott said casually. “You tell Hermione you want to go for Cedric, but you don’t want to show up alone. She’ll come. And then I can make my move.”

Harry stopped walking. “You want me to trick her into going to a party with you.”

“Trick is such a loaded word,” Nott said smoothly. “Think of it more as… staging. You’re creating the right conditions.”

Harry snorted. “Right. And in return, I get… what? The satisfaction of watching Hermione hex you?”

“No,” Nott said, tilting his head. “You get to look good at the Yule Ball.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“I’ve seen what robes you’re planning to wear,” Nott said, his voice almost pitying. “They’re boring, too short, and have a bit of that unfortunate Weasley-hand-me-down charm.”

Harry squinted at him. “How did you—?”

Nott just gave him a look. “You gain another three centimeters before the Ball, Potter. You’re going to look ridiculous in that outfit unless someone intervenes.”

Harry opened and closed his mouth. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?” Nott said airily. “Do you really want to be standing next to Cedric Diggory in sleeves that don’t reach your wrists?”

Harry hesitated. The idea of Cedric looking elegant and put-together while Harry looked like a forgotten third cousin at a wedding was… humiliating.

“I can help you,” Nott said. “New robes. Proper fit. A color that actually brings out your eyes.” He smiled faintly. “Just think of it as your good deed for the week. One harmless little nudge. In the name of true love.”

Harry muttered something uncharitable under his breath.

Nott beamed. “So that’s a yes?”

Harry sighed. “Fine. But if Hermione murders me—”

“I’ll attend your funeral in very tasteful robes,” Nott promised, already vanishing down a corridor that circled back to the dungeons.

Harry stared after him, resigned. “I’m going to regret this.”

Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione pulled a jumper over her head and glanced sideways at Harry as they made their way down the Grand Staircase. "You're being ridiculous," she said, lightly exasperated. "It's a Hufflepuff party, not a pit of vipers."

Harry scowled. "A pit of vipers would be easier."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You're nervous."

"I'm fine," he muttered unconvincingly.

She grinned. "Afraid of a room full of friendly, smiling badgers."

He muttered something too low to catch.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, made their way past a pair of chattering Ravenclaws, and came to a round barrel near the kitchens. Harry tapped the rhythm Cedric had taught him—"Helga's toast, Helga's toast"—and the lid swung open.

The Hufflepuff Common Room was, in a word, cozy. It was lit with golden-hued lanterns and draped with soft garlands of enchanted ivy that shimmered faintly when people walked by. The floor was scattered with cushions, warm rugs, and low tables bearing bowls of crisps, cauldrons of hot cider, and a frankly alarming quantity of biscuits.

The party was in full swing. A group of fifth years were dancing in a loose circle, arms flailing joyously, while others lounged in conversation pits with butterbeer and biscuits. The music—coming from a wireless perched atop a bookshelf—was bouncy and just a little too loud.

Within seconds of their arrival, Cedric spotted Harry.

"There you are," he said, striding across the room. He cupped Harry’s face sweetly and kissed him full on the mouth.

Harry turned the shade of a ripe tomato.

A few heads turned; there were catcalls from some of Cedric’s housemates.

"Hi," Harry said dazedly.

"Come on," Cedric grinned, lacing their fingers. "Drinks are this way."

Harry didn’t so much as wave to Hermione before he was pulled away.

Hermione stood alone in the doorway.

"Why am I even here," she muttered.

"Probably because fate wanted us to have our second date," came a voice at her shoulder.

She spun, scowling. "Theo. What are you doing at a Hufflepuff party?"

Theo gave her an infuriatingly calm smile. "I’m here to see my many dear Puff friends. Inter-house unity, Hermione. Surely you approve."

She gave him a look.

He leaned in, breath warm by her ear. "Would it be better if I said I’m here to woo you? Or would that just make you more annoyed?"

Her stomach flipped. "We’re getting drinks," she said flatly, spinning on her heel.

"Excellent plan."

They crossed the room to the drink table. Hermione’s eyes were scanning past the butterbeer (too sweet) and firewhiskey (absolutely not) when a bottle of elderflower mead slid into view.

Theo set two stemless glasses on the table beside it. "Your favorite."

Hermione frowned. "I’ve never had that before."

"Right you are—I should have said it’s about to become your favorite," Theo quipped with a smug smile. He handed her a glass.

She took a cautious sip. It was lightly floral, just sweet enough, and oddly comforting.

She felt an irrational pang of irritation.

"Over here," Theo said, gesturing to a low bench nestled in an alcove surrounded by ferns. It was somehow more private than the rest of the party.

She sat, fuming.

"Well. Let me have it," he said cheerfully, settling beside her.

"You cheat," she said at once.

"Mmm?"

"You know things you shouldn’t know, and you use them to make me—make me—"

He tilted his head, smirking. "Make you what, Hermione?"

She scowled, flustered, and took another sip of her mead to avoid answering.

Eventually, Hermione let out a slow breath, leaned back into the cushions, and said with exasperated disbelief, "This is absurd. Would I even like you if you weren't divining your every move? If you didn't know how to do every little thing exactly right?"

Theo studied her, expression unreadable at first. Then he said, quite seriously, "It doesn’t matter."

Hermione blinked. "It does matter. That’s the whole point. If you weren’t… you, maybe I wouldn’t—"

"And if you hadn’t time-traveled, we wouldn’t be here either," Theo said calmly. "You can’t separate who I am from what I can do. Just like I can’t separate you from the life you lived before you arrived here."

Hermione sat with that, unsure if she found it frustrating or oddly reassuring. Maybe both.

"Enough of that," Theo said suddenly, shaking his head. "No heart-to-hearts until our third date."

"Excuse me?" Hermione said, voice rising.

Before she could further object to either the implication that this was a date or that there would be a third one, Theo reached into his pocket and then slid a folded copy of an academic article toward her.

"Have you seen this yet?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes in suspicion but unfolded it—and let out a soft gasp.

"Oh! I forgot about this—ancient runes from the Diomedian ruins! They thought the site was a fake for decades, and then in ’94—well, I suppose they’ve just published it now—but look! There’s a full transcription here. I never got my hands on the full article before—look at the syntax pattern—"

Theo watched her with something between amusement and admiration. "I know—the authors are arguing that it was created by wizards with an Ergative language background."

"Oh! Yes—I remember that now.” She bit her lip as she looked over the transcription. “But it’s a weak argument. Just because there’s evidence of thematic roles in the runes—”

“Doesn’t guarantee the source language wasn’t Nominative-Accusative,” Theo agreed with a nod.

They were off. Back and forth in increasingly passionate discussion, the article spread across the low table between them, Hermione pointing animatedly while Theo jotted notes in the margins.

It was the first time she'd ever spoken to him without the constant awareness of who he was or what she ought to be hiding. The first time she'd forgotten herself entirely.

She had no idea how long they’d been talking—ten minutes? An hour? The bench had grown more comfortable, the lights in the dormitory dimmed to golden warmth, and her mead sat long forgotten beside her.

Then Harry’s voice broke through the haze. "There you are! I’ve looked everywhere."

Hermione turned, startled, and saw him pop out from behind a curtain of ferns. He was pink-cheeked and glowing—clearly tipsy—with the kind of happy daze that only came from spiked butterbeer and being doted on by someone who adored you.

Cedric was with him, arms looped lazily around Harry from behind, chin tucked over his shoulder. He looked equally content, his eyes bright and smile slightly lovestruck.

"I should have figured you’d be hidden in a corner with your academic soulmate," Harry added, nodding at Theo.

"I did find the best corner," Theo said agreeably, not looking up from the transcription he was annotating.

"Drafting your wedding vows?" Harry teased as he slid into the booth beside Hermione. Cedric squeezed in beside him.

Hermione rolled her eyes and reached to pour herself another glass of mead. "We’re discussing ancient runic syntax."

"Ah," Cedric said, smiling, "very romantic."

Theo hummed solemnly. "Yes—positively erotic, too."

Harry sputtered while Cedric just laughed, one hand sneaking around Harry’s waist.

Hermione smiled into her mead and leaned back into the cushions, the playfulness of the conversation warming something in her chest.

Cedric’s fingers drummed lightly on the table as he leaned forward, nodding toward Theo. “So, Nott—what’s your story? Are you always this quiet at parties, or—” he cocked his head with a challenging smirk “—are you just afraid to draw attention as the only snake in the badger’s den?”

Theo didn’t look up from his notes. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Someone impressed by your ability to orchestrate a perfect romantic alleyway ambush,” Cedric said lightly, nudging Harry with his shoulder.

“Oh, right,” Harry muttered. “I’ve been meaning to ask how you did that.”

Theo shrugged. “I’m a Seer,” he said plainly.

Hermione, mid-sip of her mead, choked so violently she had to set her glass down with a thump.

“You’re a what?” Harry asked, eyes wide.

Theo looked at him, perfectly composed. “Seer. Capital S.” At the look of shock on Hermione’s face he rolled his eyes. “It’s not a secret I plan to keep from your friends.” 

She gaped at him. “But—why—?”

“If I don’t tell them now they’ll have it figured out in a matter of weeks anyway,” Theo said. Then, with a cheeky wink, he added in a stage whisper, “Better to get in their good graces, no?”

Cedric gaped skeptically. “You really see visions of the future?”

“Only bits of it,” Theo said. “Disconnected and disordered pieces from here and there. And only through dreams.”

Harry leaned forward with interest. “So... do you See random people too, or just people you know?”

Theo hummed thoughtfully. “Not always people I know. But people I’m... tethered to. Somehow.” He looked faintly uncomfortable. “It’s not ideal. The Sight has no sense of boundaries.”

“What’s the weirdest one?” Harry asked. “Like, the furthest removed thing you’ve ever Seen?”

Theo winced. “A house-elf uprising in Northern Denmark. No idea why. But I had it for three nights straight.”

Hermione tried to keep her voice level as she jumped in, saying quickly, “Maybe we shouldn’t ask Theo too many questions. The ethics of having future knowledge—”

“So,” Cedric cut in with interest, “have you Seen anything about the Tournament?”

Hermione stiffened.

Theo, blessedly smooth, didn’t even blink. “Oh, loads. But I’m not about to help you two cheat.”

Cedric laughed with delight. “Pity. Would save us a lot of time.”

Harry muttered something that sounded like “sodding dampening clues” into his butterbeer with annoyance.

Theo nudged Hermione’s ankle under the table. “Well, I’m knackered. Can I walk you back to your dorm?”

She startled slightly, then nodded. “Yes—yes, alright.” She stood, grateful for the excuse to forestall any more questions about the future and the Tournament.

“I’ll find my own way back,” Harry added, the unprompted comment completely failing at nonchalance. Hermione watched as his eyes wandered to Cedric with all the subtlety of a niffler spotting gold. His cheeks were pink, and not just from drinking.

As Theo and Hermione turned to go, Cedric leaned into Harry and murmured, none too subtly, “Do you think she likes him?”

“She’s going to murder him. So, maybe,” Harry snorted. 

Hermione spun on her heel and leveled a look at him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten how I conveniently wound up at this party, Harry Potter!” she snapped. 

Harry’s eyes jumped to Theo, like a neon sign announcing his guilt. 

“You’re going to hex me to hell and back, aren’t you?” he asked Hermione, already resigned.

She smiled sweetly. “Don’t be silly, Harry. I’d never hex you.” She leaned in, her voice dropping. “I’ll just casually mention your recent reading list next time Cedric’s around.”

Harry went sheet-white. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, but I would.”

She turned on her heel, thoroughly satisfied, and began striding toward the exit.

Behind her, Cedric could be heard asking in a teasing tone, “Merlin, Harry—what kind of books are you reading?”

Harry’s response was squeaky: “None! Just normal ones! Quidditch books!”

Hermione bit back a smirk.

Once they were out in the hallway, the sound of laughter and music fading behind them, she became suddenly aware of the soft hush of the castle and Theo’s quiet footsteps beside her.

It felt… weirdly like the end of a date.

She risked a glance sideways and immediately regretted it—he was already looking at her, smug and amused, like he’d plucked the thought right out of her head.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” she muttered, and started walking at a brisk pace.

“Slow down, Granger,” Theo said lazily, hands in his pockets. “You’re walking like you can’t wait to be rid of me.”

“I’m walking like someone who knows exactly how this ends,” she shot back, eyes fixed on the next staircase.

He arched a brow. “With you admitting you had a lovely time and asking me to the next party?”

She gave an indelicate snort. “With me shoving you into a broom cupboard and locking the door.”

Theo grinned, clearly unbothered. “Scandalous.”

“Alone.”

“Hm. Less scandalous.”

Hermione groaned and started up the stairs two at a time—only to freeze at the top landing, a hand shooting out to stop Theo.

Down the next corridor, just out of view, two voices were speaking in hushed tones.

No—one voice.

Hermione recognized it instantly: gravelly, gruff, slightly off-kilter. Alastor Moody.

Or—rather—Barty Crouch Jr.

She reached out instinctively, catching Theo’s sleeve to hold him in place.

“Something wrong?” he mouthed.

She held up a finger for silence.

From around the corner, Moody muttered, low and clipped, pacing by the sound of it.

“Doesn’t add up,” he said to no one, his tone sharp with suspicion. “Potter’s too adaptable, and the girl’s too clever. Knows things she shouldn’t. The Nott boy too.”

Hermione’s heart began to hammer. She felt Theo go very still beside her.

“He’s talking to himself,” Theo whispered, just barely audible.

Moody kept going, voice now tinged with something darker—almost paranoid. “Granger’s meddling. Nott… he’s helping…”

Theo gave Hermione a sidelong look—tense, unreadable. She didn’t have time to process it.

“Come on,” she hissed, hauling him bodily toward a broom cupboard half a corridor back.

Theo snorted quietly as the door clicked shut. “Be still my heart, Granger. If you wanted to get me alone—”

“Shut it,” she hissed.

From the depths of her pocket, she yanked out a coiled length of thin, flesh-colored string.

“Is that—?” Theo squinted at it. “You’re kidding. That’s a future Weasley product!”

“I made my own—and upgraded it,” she whispered absentmindedly, unspooling the Extendable Ear and guiding it toward the corridor with her wand.

But Moody had stopped talking.

There was only the heavy thump of a boot and wooden leg now—growing louder. Approaching.

Hermione looked at Theo, her chest tight.

“Will he find us?” she breathed.

Theo’s expression twisted in rare, honest panic. “I don’t know! I haven’t Seen this!”

Hermione looked at the broom cupboard door like it might explode.

Then, against all logic, her brain supplied: kissing would be a perfectly rational excuse to be hiding in a closet. Not snooping. Just… snogging.

Which was how Hermione found himself grabbing Theo by the collar and kissing him within an inch of his life.

Theo froze—utterly and entirely—for a single heartbeat.

Then his hands found her waist and his mouth answered hers with something closer to desperation than finesse.

It was… heated. Very heated. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered they were pretending—but that thought slipped, fizzled, disappeared entirely as Theo pulled her closer, hand curling into the back of her jumper. Her fingers tangled in his collar, anchoring herself against the sharp rush of thoughts like holy Merlin what is happening.

Then, slowly, Theo drew back—eyes dazed, breathing uneven.

“I think,” he said breathlessly, “he’s long gone.”

Hermione’s face felt like it had been set on fire. “Right!”

A moment passed. It was, objectively, the most awkward moment of her life.

“You didn’t… See any of that coming?” she asked, voice small.

He shook his head, giving her a crooked smile. “Nope. Pretty sure I would’ve remembered.”

Then a look crossed his face briefly that tugged at her gut—soft, sad, and guarded.

Hermione took a step closer, hesitantly placing a palm on his chest. “What was that look? What’s wrong?”

Theo looked away. “It’s stupid.”

“I want to know.”

He exhaled, then turned to her, voice quieter. “I thought our first kiss would go differently than that. I Saw a version once—it was… different. It was slower. Sweeter. You started it then, too, but it was... I don’t know. It felt different.”

Hermione’s chest tightened.

“Sometimes,” Theo continued, almost absently, “I realize the version of something I Saw isn’t going to happen after all. It’s not the end of the world. But it’s a little sad. Like… losing a memory that never got made.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

“Where did it happen?” she asked quietly, mouth running faster than her brain.

He grinned ruefully. “The library, naturally.”

Hermione nodded.

She didn’t know where the impulse came from—maybe it was the way his voice went quiet, like that lost moment still lived somewhere behind his eyes—but suddenly she was grabbing his wrist and tugging him after her, down the corridor without a word.

Theo stumbled once in surprise, catching up to her stride. “Hermione?” he whispered.

She didn’t answer.

The library was closed, of course. The massive oak doors stood locked, the sconces beside them dimmed. Hermione didn’t even break pace—she reached for her wand and performed a small, practiced flick. The lock gave a quiet click and the door swung open with a low creak.

Theo’s brows lifted as she led him inside. They passed through the dim stacks, moonlight glinting faintly off polished tables and dusty chandeliers. Hermione stopped just before the far alcove that divided the general library from the Restricted Section.

She turned to look at him expectantly.

Theo stared at her, thoroughly baffled. “What are we…?”

“Well?” she said, head tilted. “Where did it happen?”

Realization dawned slowly across his face. His eyes darkened, just barely, something deep and warm flickering there.

“The Restricted Section,” he said.

She nodded once, briskly, and gestured for him to wave them through.

Theo retrieved his charmed pass from his pocket and held it to the latch. The chains unwound with a rattle, letting them enter.

Hermione led them to the final row of shelves, tucked away in near-darkness. She turned to him, motioning for him to stay. “Wait here.”

He did as told, mouth twitching with curious delight.

Hermione circled around the shelf, emerging from the opposite side, walking slowly up to where he stood with his back turned. She stopped behind him.

“Theo,” she said softly.

He jumped—just slightly—then turned, expression open and amused.

She lifted her chin. “I’d like to try kissing you. Properly.”

He blinked, clearly startled. Then his grin unfurled, all sharp edges and teasing confidence. “Oh?”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Some things,” she said with crisp precision, “are best determined with empirical evidence.”

Theo laughed—quiet and delighted. “Be still my heart.”

She stepped forward. Slowly, deliberately. Then rose onto her toes and pressed her lips to his.

It was soft—tentative. No broom cupboard urgency this time. Just her mouth brushing his, her hands curling into the front of his robes, and the slow, steady rhythm of her heart keeping time.

Theo didn’t rush her. He kissed her back sweetly and confidently—like he’d known this would happen all along, and had merely been waiting for her to realize it.

When they finally pulled apart, breath soft between them, Theo exhaled a shaky laugh.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, brushing his thumb along the edge of her jaw. “For making the memory happen.”

Hermione’s voice was more tentative than she expected as she asked, “Was it how you remembered?”

He gave her a look so fond it nearly unmoored her. “Better.”

She blinked and, without thinking, tucked her head against his chest. It was solid and warm and smelled faintly of parchment and bergamot. Her mind, meanwhile, was spiraling in about five different directions at once.

Theo chuckled against the crown of her head. “You’re thinking too hard.”

“I am not,” she scoffed—though it lacked heat.

“You are,” he said with a grin. Then, lowering his voice slightly, he added, “So let me give you something simple to think about.”

She tilted her head to look up at him.

Theo leaned in, close enough that his breath danced across her cheek. “Would you do me the honor,” he murmured, “of going on a date with me? A proper one, this time. Our third date, by my count—but the first one I won’t have to trick you into attending.”

Hermione swallowed. Then nodded once, a little shy, a little stunned. “Okay.”

Theo smiled. Not the smirk he usually wore—but something gentler. Real.

“Brilliant,” he said softly.

Hermione was nearly to the Gryffindor common room when she rounded a corner—and slammed to a stop.

Harry stood outside the portrait hole with the Marauder’s Map in hand and an expression of barely contained glee.

“Well, well, well,” he said, eyes flicking over her face and rumpled hair. “How’d I manage to beat you back? You left with Nott nearly an hour ago, ‘Mione.”

Hermione scowled. “Shut it, Harry.”

Harry’s grin widened with terrible delight. “Mmm, no, I don’t think I will. In fact, I think I’ll be talking about this for a while. Possibly forever. You, running around the castle—snogging Theodore Nott—”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”

“—in the Restricted Section, Hermione?” he added, gleefully scandalized. 

“It’s creepy that you know that.”

He ignored her. “You’ve gone and fallen for a forbidden Slytherin with sharp cheekbones and a tragic backstory. Honestly, Hermione—it’s classic Romeo and Juliet.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You’re one to talk. Cedric’s your literal opponent in a deadly Tournament—but that didn’t stop you from going starry-eyed at the Hufflepuff with a jawline sent from heaven.”

“That’s hardly the same,” Harry argued, face flushing.

She rolled her eyes, moving toward the portrait hole. “Honestly, Harry—is there anything that doesn’t make you blush?”

He scowled at her. “I’m going to get you back for the book comment.”

“Best of luck with that—I don’t embarrass as easily as you do.” 

“We’ll see about that.”

Chapter Text

Harry

Harry was no stranger to detention, but he couldn’t help feeling that this one was… different.

For starters, it was Sunday night, and instead of scrubbing cauldrons or alphabetizing moldy potion ingredients, he was seated in a high-backed chair across from Professor Dumbledore in the Headmaster’s office. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, which didn’t match the knot of tension low in Harry’s stomach.

Dumbledore folded his hands on his desk. “Harry,” he began in that kind, too-knowing voice of his, “a letter arrived this week from Gringotts. Addressed to me, but concerning you.”

He slid a parchment across the desk. Harry leaned forward to skim it. The seal was one Harry vaguely recognized from his prior visits to Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

Dumbledore continued, “They have informed me that I am no longer permitted to make financial decisions on your behalf.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “What? Why?”

“I suspect,” said Dumbledore, “that the Goblet of Fire is to blame.”

“...Because it picked me for the Tournament?”

“Yes. The Goblet is an artifact bound by ancient and powerful magic,” Dumbledore sighed. “It was designed to create binding magical contracts. If it was coerced into naming you, it may have—consequently—forced you to become magically ‘of age’ for the contract.”

Harry’s stomach flipped. “So… I’m a legal adult?”

“Magically, yes. Not in the Muggle world, I suppose, but here…” Dumbledore gave him a tired smile. “It complicates some matters. But, as you’ll soon find, it also simplifies others.”

He gestured to the desk again, where a few other documents appeared beside the Gringotts letter. “Tonight’s detention, I’m afraid, will be largely bureaucratic. You are now the legal Head of the Potter family, and with that comes certain responsibilities.”

Harry blinked. “I—what?”

“You’ll need to begin by contacting your Gringotts account manager,” Dumbledore continued. “Up until now, I’ve handled matters like paying tuition from your family vault. But it is no longer within my abilities.”

Harry gaped. “Hogwarts has tuition?”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Indeed it does. Though the Weasleys, and many others, are exempted. I imagine no one has ever had reason to mention it to you.”

“No,” Harry muttered, cheeks warm. “I didn’t realize.”

Dumbledore summoned a fresh sheet of parchment and handed it to Harry with a quill. “Start by writing to Mr. Ragnak, the manager listed here. You’ll want to arrange for your next term’s tuition to be paid from the main Potter vault.”

Harry scribbled obediently, mind spinning. “Right. Sure. Okay.”

There was a pause. Then Dumbledore sighed. “There is something else, Harry.”

Harry looked up, heart suddenly in his throat.

“The blood protections placed by your mother are now… gone.”

The world seemed to tilt. 

“You no longer stand to gain any protection by living under the roof of your maternal blood. The moment you crossed the threshold of adulthood—magically speaking—all protections unraveled. I am afraid that you cannot return to Number 4, Private Drive. It would no longer be safe.”

Harry felt like the air had been knocked out of him.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thoughts of never returning to hungry nights, ridicule, and angry fists spun hopefully through Harry’s mind—seeming too good to be true. His eyes briefly met Dumbledore’s.

Something strange happened—Harry saw a flicker of realization—of deep concern—cross the Headmaster’s face. Harry looked down at his lap quickly, wondering if Dumbledore had seen the relief and hope on his face. 

Harry cleared his throat. “Can I… can I live with Sirius?”

After an overly long pause, Dumbledore cleared his throat to respond. “He may need to leave the country. His recent… appearance on the grounds has forced our hand somewhat.” He steepled his fingers. “However, there is a Black family estate in northern Spain. Protected, heavily warded, and empty so far as I know. It could serve as a new home for you two. I want you to write to him. See what he thinks.”

Dumbledore sounded less than hopeful.

“But…?” Harry asked, already bracing himself.

“But,” Dumbledore admitted, voice regretful, “I am unsure whether Sirius will be able and… willing to complete the steps necessary to secure that estate. Thus, we cannot rely on that plan just yet. If it falls through, however, there are others who would gladly take you in for the remainder of your school years.”

“The Weasleys?” Harry guessed with a wince. “I… Ron and I aren’t exactly—”

“—Yes,” Dumbledore said kindly. “I had wondered. Although, I would be shocked if Molly felt any differently about taking you in, Harry—she is quite fond of you.”

Harry swallowed, imagining how awkward living at the Burrow would be if Ron and him never made up. “So if Sirius says no…?”

“You’ll have options,” Dumbledore promised. “Or you may find yourself choosing a new home for the first time.”

Harry stared down at the half-finished letter in his hands. For the first time all year, it felt like the ground was shifting beneath his feet in a way that wasn’t terrifying.

“The last thing, Harry, which I am certain that you will be happy to learn,” Dumbledore said, a twinkle in his eye, “is that you are no longer under the Trace. I wrote to Mafalda Hopkirk at the Ministry to confirm this is the case.”

Dumbledore slid another letter across the desk for Harry to examine. As he skimmed over the words ‘unrestricted in his use of magic outside of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’ Harry broke into a wide smile.

“Brilliant,” he said happily.

Dumbledore smiled back at him. “Indeed.” 

The Headmaster then stood and strode to a nearby bookshelf, plucking a leather-bound tome from it. “Begin with the letters, Harry. From there, you’ll serve your detention by reading this.”

He set the book in front of Harry. The title read: Management of Wizarding Estates.

Harry wrinkled his nose.

A small chuckle sounded from above him, and he looked up to see Dumbledore’s piercing blue eyes looking at him over his half-moon spectacles. “It is a detention, after all, my boy.”

Harry returned to his letter with a small sigh.

The lake shimmered under the early winter sun, low on the horizon and casting the water in muted gold. Harry and Cedric walked the narrow path along the bank, hands occasionally brushing, deep in meandering conversation. They’d been talking for nearly an hour—about nothing, about everything. Somehow, it was always like that with Cedric; easy and warm.

“So… apparently I’m legally an adult now,” Harry said dryly, nudging a pebble with the toe of his boot. “Thanks to the Goblet of Fire.”

Cedric gaped. “You’re free of the Trace early, then?”

“Yep—I’m now free to wreak havoc in the real world,” Harry joked. He then wrinkled his nose as he added, “But Dumbledore said I’m also now responsible for making my tuition payments and managing the ‘Potter Estate’—whatever that even means. He made me read a book on it in detention.” 

“You poor thing. Such a dreadful detention—reading about finances,” Cedric teased.

Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly. They continued walking as Harry chewed on the last bit of information; he knew that he wanted to share it with Cedric, and yet the idea of saying it aloud made his gut churn with something akin to shame. He cleared his throat, then said as casually as he could manage, “Becoming a legal adult also means that I’m no longer protected by my mother’s blood wards—the ones that guarded me at my Aunt’s home in Surrey.”

Cedric sobered at that. “So you won’t go back to—”

“Number Four?” Harry said, then looked away. “No. Dumbledore confirmed it isn’t safe.”

Cedric was quiet for a moment. “Good.”

That one word, said so softly and so firmly, wrapped around Harry’s ribs like something warm.

They kept walking. The castle loomed in the distance now, the lake trail looping them past the Quidditch pitch.

“I told Dumbledore I’d like to live with Sirius,” Harry continued. “But he thinks Sirius might need to leave the country for a while. Said there’s a Black family estate in Spain with good wards, but…” He trailed off, shrugging. “No promises.”

“You’ll figure something out,” Cedric said, bumping Harry with his shoulder. “And if all else fails, having your own place could be cool, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured. “Would just be a bit weird, I reckon… Living all alone during the summer sounds a bit lonely.”

Cedric nodded, then glanced sideways at him. “What about… Ron?”

Harry made a face. “We’re not talking. Haven’t been on good terms since the Goblet.”

Cedric slowed his steps. “You think you’ll make up?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said honestly. “The way he treated me really… hurt. It feels impossible to just go back like nothing ever happened. Even if I was hoping I’d always have the Weasleys—that I’d be part of their family, in a way. I just… don’t know.”

Cedric’s brow furrowed in sympathy.

“It’s fine,” Harry said quickly. “Just… weird. Makes me realize how much I used to take it for granted.”

They reached the edge of the pitch. Cedric stopped, squinting out at the field as though seeing it for the first time in weeks. Then he sighed, long and dramatic.

“What?” Harry asked, confused.

“Just thinking it’s tragic we never got to have a proper match,” Cedric said wistfully. “The world deserved to see me destroy you.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Please. You should be grateful the dementors interrupted. Saved you the embarrassment of defeat.”

“You’ve never actually beaten me, Harry—your confidence is entirely unfounded.”

“Hardly—I’ve got more of a Seeker’s build than you do,” Harry shot back. “Small and fast.”

Cedric gave him a look. “You did last year... but you’ve shot up since then.” He tilted his head, assessing. “I reckon you’re taller than most of the boys in my year now. It’s just easy to forget when you’re standing next to me—one-eighty-eight is hard to beat, after all,” Cedric said with a wink. 

Harry flushed, hesitantly admitting, “Hermione… gave me something. Start of term. A correction for… stunted growth.” His voice got quieter as he forced the next word out: “Malnourishment, I think.”

Cedric went very still.

“It’s worked a bit too well, maybe,” Harry joked half-heartedly. “Or maybe this is just what I was supposed to look like all along—who knows; I can’t exactly ask my dad how tall he was in fourth year.”

Cedric’s hand came up to frame Harry’s jaw with a gentleness that didn’t match the spark of fury in his eyes. “You don’t ever have to go back there, now.”

“I know,” Harry said. “Just… haven’t figured out where I’m going instead.”

Cedric’s touch dropped away, but not before he gently squeezed Harry’s shoulder. As though reading Harry’s desire to change topics, he said in a brighter tone, “Well, I’ve just had a brilliant idea.”

Harry blinked as Cedric turned and began jogging toward the broom shed.

“What are you—?”

“A fair match,” Cedric called. “Seeker-on-Seeker. Loser buys the winner a butterbeer!”

Harry laughed and followed, heart lightening.

Cedric opened the broom shed and ducked inside, emerging a moment later with both their brooms and a practice Snitch. He tossed Harry his Firebolt.

He strode to the middle of the pitch, backlit by sunset, explaining the rules—but Harry was hardly listening. His brain had snagged on the way Cedric walked, then the way his lips moved as he spoke…

“Harry.”

Harry swallowed. “What?”

Cedric smirked and pointed at his amber eyes while wagging his eyebrows. “My eyes are up here.”

Warmth flared across Harry’s face. 

Cedric laughed warmly, stepping forward to kiss the blush on each of Harry’s cheeks, one after the other, and then the tip of his nose. “I said we’re playing best of three, alright? Loser buys our butterbeers next Hogsmeade weekend.”

“You’re on,” Harry murmured, slightly breathless. 

They mounted their brooms and rose swiftly. Cedric then drifted toward Harry with his right hand extended. “Right-arm dominant?”

“Er…”

Cedric seemed to catch on to Harry’s confusion. “We clasp dominant arms and release the Snitch together with our non-dominant hands. That way neither of us can have an unfair advantage.”

“Oh! Alright—yeah—right-arm dominant…” Harry stammered.

A wicked smirk crept onto Cedric’s face. “Beating you is going to be easy if I can keep you this flustered.”

Harry scowled.

They clasped each others’ right arms, wrist-to-elbow, which brought them into a strange position of hovering almost hip-to-hip facing opposite directions. Cedric then held the Snitch between his left pointer finger and thumb above their interlocked arms, and nodded for Harry to take hold of it too. The result was a rather strange pretzel of limbs.

A rather strange and thrilling pretzel of limbs. 

“On three? One… two… three!”

The released Snitch shot away from them immediately, and Harry lost sight of it by the time he had dropped Cedric’s arm and moved his grip back to his broom. He wasted no time climbing to a higher vantage point, the wind tugging at his hair as he gained altitude. The pitch below shrank, a patchwork of gold-tinged grass and shadow. His heart thrummed—not just from the rush of flying, but from the electric charge of Cedric’s gaze lingering on him moments ago.

He spotted Cedric looping wide below him, scanning in the opposite direction. The late sun cast long shadows across the field, and the glint of the Snitch could be anywhere. Harry narrowed his eyes, circling tighter.

Then he saw it—just a flicker of gold darting near the north hoops.

He dove.

The Firebolt responded like it was made for him—sleek and smooth, slicing through the air with precision. He heard, rather than saw, Cedric pivoting hard and falling into pursuit behind him. For one breathless moment they were both streaking toward the same point like twin comets.

Harry reached forward, hand outstretched—

His fingers closed around metal.

“Got it!” he shouted, pulling up hard.

Cedric peeled away and hovered nearby, a slow grin spreading across his face as he shook his head. “Alright,” he said, feigning annoyance. “One to you.”

Harry’s grin was triumphant.

Cedric flew over and held out his hand for the Snitch. “Ready for round two?”

They reset, clasped arms again, and released.

This time, Cedric took the high ground first, his movements sharper, more aggressive. He looped wide, fast, cutting off angles Harry was aiming for. They passed each other close enough for Harry to hear the wind in Cedric’s cloak, and at one point Cedric gave him a wink before accelerating downward.

Harry cursed under his breath and pivoted hard to follow.

It was nearly five minutes of intense circling later before Harry spotted it—low, zipping past the far goalposts. He lunged, streaking forward—and that was his mistake.

Cedric had been waiting for that moment.

He cut across Harry’s line with surgical precision and dipped low, snatching the Snitch out of the air with a clean, practiced motion.

“Ha!” Cedric crowed, slowing to a hover and holding the Snitch aloft in victory.

Harry pulled up beside him and scowled, though his eyes were glittering. “That was a trap.”

“You fell for it beautifully,” Cedric said, flushed and gleaming with windswept triumph. “One-one.”

They shared a grin, both of them slightly breathless, and turned in tandem to reset for the final match.

Hovering in the middle of the pitch again, the sky now streaked with deep lavender as dusk settled in, Cedric offered his right arm with mock solemnity. “Ready to be defeated, Potter?”

Harry rolled his eyes and took Cedric’s arm, clasping wrist-to-elbow once more. Their brooms bobbed slightly in the air as they twisted into that now-familiar tangle of limbs—arms locked, hands poised around the Snitch between them.

“On three,” Cedric said, voice low and a bit too close to Harry’s ear.

Harry turned in surprise, and Cedric seized the opportunity to kiss him—hard and deliberate, mouth parting just enough to deepen it. His tongue swept against Harry’s lower lip before catching it with his teeth in a gentle, teasing nibble.

It sent sparks through Harry’s body, sharp and electric. His heart thundered like he’d been hit simultaneously with a Stunner and a Cheering Charm. Cedric had never kissed him like that before—impulsive and just a tad aggressive—and Harry’s brain seemed to reboot entirely.

“Three,” Cedric whispered sweetly, and let go.

The Snitch rocketed away before Harry could blink back into focus.

“You cheat!” Harry yelled, still floating in place.

“It’s called strategy!” Cedric called back, laughing.

Harry huffed in outrage, deciding—in that moment—that he was going to win. Smirking as an idea formed in his mind, he chose a spot near the Ravenclaw stands and—keeping his eye trained on it intently—began a swift and daring dive. Harry almost immediately felt Cedric close ranks with him.

He was fast—Harry would admit that much.

Harry pulled from his dive partway, leaving a confused Cedric speeding past him—forced to slow to a near stop. He eyed Harry as he spun around, his jaw slack with surprise. Harry stuck his tongue out at him in response before darting away with a wide grin.

Harry attempted to take advantage of his stalled competitor, sweeping across the pitch intently and hoping for an advantageous glimpse of the Snitch. 

But no such luck.

Cedric had returned to a steady, sweeping undulation around the pitch, and Harry continued to circle opposite him.

When the Snitch finally caught the light, they both spotted it at once.

The tiny ball gave chase, resulting in Harry and Cedric pursuing side-by-side. Cedric attempted to bump Harry off course (technically legal, but annoying) and Harry—properly miffed by the move—swung back to bump him in return—

Cedric barrel-rolled at the last second, leaving an empty space for Harry to careen across.

It was Harry’s turn to gape at his opponent slack-jawed. He had veered far enough off course that Cedric now had a distinct lead on the Snitch. 

Harry laid as flat to his broom as possible and coaxed every bit of speed out of it that he could. His one advantage over Cedric was his smaller stature… if he could just—

Cedric was inches from grabbing the Snitch when it jerked down, bringing it perilously close to the stands. He continued to match its direction and speed but didn’t dare dip any lower. It gave Harry just enough time to catch up to him.

Once the golden ball was within reach, Harry leaned sideways off his broom and extended his right arm as low as he could, catching it by the very tips of his fingers.

But before Harry could whoop! and pump his fist in victory, his forearm connected with a handrail—breaking his arm in a sickening collision of metal and bone.

Harry nearly blacked out at the pain, but somehow maintained a strangling grip on his broom with his left hand. He slowed and dropped down to the pitch—his earlier determination to beat Cedric quickly forgotten. As soon as he could finally drop his Firebolt, he cradled his broken right arm instinctively, doubling the pain as he moved it.

“Do you not have any self-preservation instincts?!” Cedric yelled at him, dropping his broom as soon as he landed.

Harry moaned, “Hosp… al… wing.”

Cedric’s anger dissipated instantly. “Hold on,” he murmured softly.

A floating stretcher appeared beside Harry. He dropped onto it without question and let it carry him along beside a fast-paced Cedric.

“Why do you know how to conjure a stretcher?” Harry croaked.

Cedric shrugged with a forced smile. “My mum showed me.” 

Not long after they entered the Hospital Wing, Madame Pomfrey came bustling out of her office. “Mr. Diggory? I wasn’t expecting you… Oh! Mr. Potter—”

She directed the stretcher to float over to a bed and slowly lowered Harry onto it. Once Harry was supported by the bed, the stretcher disappeared from where it had been sandwiched. She began a visual inspection of his arm, and—upon spotting a glint of gold—pried the Snitch from Harry’s still-closed fist.

At least Harry had held onto it.

“Quidditch,” Pomfrey said with disdain. “Well,” she clucked, “Go on with the diagnostic charm, Mr. Diggory.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you! Did you not express interest in shadowing me this year? Go on now! Practice makes perfect.”

Harry watched the interaction with fascination. Cedric was shadowing Madame Pomfrey? Harry raised a brow at him and received a rare, pink blush from the Hufflepuff. Harry smirked, nodding at him encouragingly.

“Vitia Revelatur,” Cedric spoke firmly, his wand tip sweeping along Harry’s forearm.

A glowing diagnostic appeared above the skin. There was a variety of colors: an orange glow ran along the scar from Harry’s run-in with the basilisk; a lilac glow shone at his wrist—right above the spot where Dudley had once broken a bone while pummeling Harry; and—most prominently—a wild mess of bright purple lines glowed all along his forearm. The pattern reminded Harry of a stained-glass window.

The look on Cedric’s face was telling; Harry read it as, ‘Bloody hell.’ 

“As I expected. Shattered.” Madame Pomfrey eyed Harry curiously. “You have quite a threshold for pain, Mr. Potter.”

“Cheers,” he said dryly.

Pomfrey ignored Harry and turned to Cedric as though lecturing. “Breaks of this nature are exceedingly difficult to set correctly with spellwork. A clean break I could fix in a moment, but a shattered bone is more complicated.” She paused to point at the kaleidoscope of lines above Harry’s arm. “Both radius and ulna will need to be removed entirely and regrown.”

Cedric nodded thoughtfully. “Pain and sleeping potions during the deboning and then timed doses of Skele-Gro?”

She nodded happily at the assessment—far too happily, Harry thought, for someone talking about deboning him—and then turned back to point at the diagnostic. “And what do you make of the other elements?”

“Orange indicates healed damage from dark magic, rituals, or creatures, so…” Cedric’s amber eyes jumped to Harry’s, “...it would be from the basilisk bite, I assume?”

Harry nodded.

“Then the lilac indicates healed damage from non-magical breaks,” Cedric continued. “So Harry must have broken his wrist at some point in his childhood.”

“A flawless identification, Mr. Diggory. Take five points for Hufflepuff.” Madame Pomfrey turned back to Harry. “You’re in for a long night, Mr. Potter.”

When Harry awoke, night had fallen and the dull, throbbing ache in his shriveled right arm confirmed that the deboning process was complete. He barely had a moment to sit up before Madame Pomfrey was pressing a goblet of Skele-Gro into his left hand with a firm insistence that he drink it all.

The taste was just as vile as he remembered. In fact, this entire hospital experience was oddly reminiscent of his second year—when Lockhart had accidentally vanished his arm bones with an overenthusiastic spell.  

Cedric remained in the Hospital Wing for hours, shadowing Pomfrey as she monitored Harry’s progress. But eventually Madame Pomfrey insisted that he go to bed, shooing him out of the room before he could so much as wave goodbye to Harry.

After that the Hospital Wing was quiet.

Too quiet.

The beds were all empty save for Harry’s, and the enchanted lamps had been dimmed to a gentle reddish glow that barely illuminated the room. Every tap of rain on the windows felt amplified in the stillness.

Harry stared at the high ceiling, eyes itchy and aching. He hadn’t slept a wink yet. Couldn’t.

The regrowing process had started hours ago, and now his right arm felt like it was being stabbed by a thousand tiny needles all at once. The pain wasn’t sharp, exactly—more like an unrelenting, throbbing irritation just beneath the surface. He shifted slightly, trying to find a position that didn’t make him want to scream.

It didn’t help.

He closed his eyes and tried to think about anything else.

Of course, his mind—traitorous and entirely unhelpful—went straight to Cedric.

To the Seeker match. To the heated kiss on the pitch. To the way Cedric had shouted at him, furious and panicked, the moment he landed. To how fast he’d conjured a stretcher. To how he’d stayed with Harry. For hours.

A faint creak broke the silence, and Harry startled, propping himself up slightly.

A moment later, the door to the Hospital Wing eased open.

Cedric slipped inside, closing it behind him with practiced quiet. He still wore his heavy cloak, and his hair was a wind-mussed halo of bronze in the low light. His eyes found Harry in the dark with ease.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Cedric whispered.

Harry blinked at him. “Cedric—what are you—?”

Cedric crossed to the bed, voice low. “Pomfrey would have my head if she knew. But I thought maybe you could use a distraction.”

Harry snorted quietly. “From what? I’ve never felt better,” he muttered sarcastically. 

“Oh I’m sure—witches and wizards are lining up for a round of Skele-gro.” Cedric laughed as though exasperated. “Honestly, Harry—who tries to grab a Snitch half a metre from a steel railing?”

“A Gryffindor,” he responded dryly.

Cedric smiled smugly, his slightly crooked tooth and dimple on full display. “You were trying to impress me, admit it.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I was trying to wipe that smug look off your face after you snogged me mid-countdown.”

Cedric looked entirely unrepentant. “It worked brilliantly, didn’t it?”

Harry groaned and tried to cover his flaming face with his good hand. Cedric laughed softly and perched on the edge of his bed, eyes warm. “Is this helping? Flirting through your pain?”

Harry peeked at him through his fingers. “I’m not flirting with you—I’m scolding you for cheating.”

“Sure you are.” Cedric leaned in just slightly, voice low and teasing. “I’m flattered, for the record, that my kisses were so distracting.”

Harry glared at him. “They weren’t.”

Cedric laughed under his breath. “Oh, really?” He leaned in and kissed Harry’s cheek. “You aren’t at all affected by this?” He placed another kiss, this time to his jaw. “Or this?” His lips slid to Harry’s ear, hot breath sending shivers down his spine as Cedric whispered, “How about this, Harry?”

A thin breath escaped Harry’s lungs just as Cedric moved to kiss him on the lips. His mouth was warm and insistent, brushing openly against Harry’s with confident ease. Their lips met, parted, and met again, and Harry made a small, helpless sound in the back of his throat he couldn’t have stopped if he tried. Cedric kissed him like he meant it—like he’d been thinking about it for days and wasn’t in a hurry to stop.

Harry forgot everything else. His arm. The sterile smell of the Hospital Wing. The fact that anyone could walk in. Cedric’s mouth and tongue were soft but sure, coaxing Harry into moving with him despite the awkward angle. Harry tilted his head, fingers twitching against the mattress as he tried not to reach up with his injured arm.

Cedric’s hand found his hair, curling into it, and the light pressure made Harry melt. He felt entirely lost in it—his heart slamming in his chest, his body buzzing, lips tingling where Cedric’s teeth gently grazed his bottom lip.

By the time they pulled apart, Harry was breathless, his head spinning, and his lips felt slightly swollen. Cedric rested his forehead against Harry’s for a moment, their breaths mingling.

“Sufficiently distracted?” he murmured.

Harry’s voice came out dazed. “What are we distracting me from again?”

Cedric chuckled, low and pleased.

Harry grinned up at him, dizzy and happy and already aching for more.

Cedric slid back just slightly, pulling the bedding up to Harry’s shoulders. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” Harry lied, still eyeing Cedric’s well-kissed lips.

“You’ve got a bone regrowth potion tearing through your arm. You’re definitely tired.”

Harry scowled, but the moment Cedric’s hand returned to his unruly hair—fingertips gently combing, soothing—he melted into the pillow contentedly.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” Cedric said softly.

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed, and the pain in his arm faded to a dull background thrum.

Warmth curled in his chest—peaceful and full.

And then, finally, Harry slept.

Chapter Text

Hermione

It was the morning after the last day of term, a gray-skied Saturday that promised snow. The Yule Ball loomed tomorrow night, but today held its own sort of significance—one Hermione was trying very hard not to overthink.

She lay in bed longer than she should’ve, curled beneath her covers and listening to the fluttering, excited chatter of Parvati and Lavender from across the room. The pair were already awake and buzzing, voices overlapping as they discussed plans to practice hair charms and glamours all afternoon. There was squealing. There was wand waving. There was—Hermione was quite sure—glitter.

Hermione knew she should get up and go to breakfast. Her stomach rumbled in protest when she didn’t. But her legs stayed tangled in her sheets, her hand resting absently on Crookshanks’ warm fur as he purred sleepily against her hip.

Because after breakfast came her date with Theo.

She didn’t know what they’d be doing—he’d only told her to dress for the weather and wear shoes she could walk in—but that was hardly the point. Her entire body seemed to hum with restless energy: part anticipation, part trepidation, and something else tangled in between that she refused to name.

Guilt, maybe.

She should be doing something useful with her time. Strategizing. Planning. Studying every possible weak point in the timeline. That was the only reason she was here, wasn’t it? Not to fall for someone. Not to go on a bloody date.

She sighed, rolling out of bed and trying to shake off the sinking feeling. Her bare toes hit the cold stone floor, dragging her firmly back to the present.

Across the room, Lavender beamed as she described the elaborate braid she planned to weave into Parvati’s hair. Parvati, undeterred by her lack of a date in this timeline, had declared her intent to woo any available Beauxbatons boy—as long as he spoke French and had prominent cheekbones.

Hermione watched them for a moment—really watched them. Lavender’s eyes glittered with excitement. Parvati threw her head back in a carefree laugh. They were both so alive.

A flash of memory slammed into her without warning: Lavender Brown, mauled and bloodied on the castle floor, eyes wide and unseeing.

Not this time, Hermione thought fiercely. Not if I can help it.

On impulse, she called out, “Lavender?”

Both girls turned to her in tandem, wide-eyed and blinking. “Hiya, Hermione,” Lavender said, her voice laced with cheerful confusion.

Hermione hesitated a second, then reached up to twirl a ringlet of her hair between her fingers. “Would you… maybe help me with my hair today?” she asked, a bit halting. “I have a… date.”

Two mouths dropped open in perfectly synchronized surprise.

“With who?” Parvati gasped.

Hermione chose not to be offended by her tone. She lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Theodore Nott.”

Parvati let out a squeal that could probably be heard in the dungeons. “Hot Nott?!”

Hermione snorted a laugh despite herself. “Is that what you call him?”

“Oh my Gods, Hermione,” Lavender breathed, already scrambling for her wand. “We’ve got work to do.”

And before Hermione could so much as blink, both girls descended on her with the gleam in their eyes.

Hermione was halfway through her tea when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye—Theodore Nott, sauntering toward the Gryffindor table like he belonged there.

He slid onto the bench beside her with effortless grace. “Good morning, Hermione,” he said, his sapphire eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “You did your hair.”

She felt her cheeks warm. Lavender and Parvati had decided to embrace her curls, coaxing them into sleek, defined ringlets that now hung to the middle of her back. The upper half was pulled back and fastened neatly, revealing her face— “So he can see you properly,” Lavender had said with a wink.

“Yes. Well.” Hermione pulled nervously at one of her curls. “Parvati and Lavender insisted.”

Theo’s gaze lingered a beat longer before he glanced down at her heavy cloak. “I know I told you to dress for the weather,” he said lightly, “but I think I’d rather not do what I had planned—if that’s alright.”

Hermione turned toward him, curious. “Something changed your mind?”

“Sort of.” He fiddled with the empty goblet in front of him. “I think I’d like to experience a date I haven’t Foreseen.”

Hermione blinked. Then, slowly, she smiled. “I like the idea of that.”

“Excellent.” He leaned back, looking relieved.

Once Hermione had drained the last of her tea, she turned to him and said, “I’m ready.”

Theo stood and offered her a hand without hesitation. She could feel eyes on them—some curious, some downright scandalized—but she took his hand anyway and let him lead her through the castle’s winding corridors.

To her surprise, they began heading down.

“The dungeons?” she asked, brows raised.

“You sound disappointed,” Theo replied, smirking.

“Not disappointed. Just… confused.”

He didn’t answer, but a moment later he stopped in front of a nondescript wooden door and pulled it open. Inside was one of the private potions labs—usually reserved for NEWT-level students and those with explicit professor permission.

Hermione shot him a look. “How did you get access to this?”

“Snape lets me get away with a lot,” Theo said, stepping inside like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Hermione followed slowly, her nerves fluttering as the door shut behind them. It was the first time they’d been alone together since the night of the party—since the heated broom-cupboard-kiss and the much sweeter one that followed.

Theo, for his part, seemed perfectly at ease. He moved to the worktable and began unpacking things from a slim, enchanted bag—ingredients spilling out one after another in neatly labeled jars and vials. Hermione tilted her head, curiosity mounting.

“This isn’t a very… traditional date,” Theo admitted. “But I thought we could start a brewing project together.”

Hermione smiled in confusion. “A project?”

Theo didn’t answer. He just kept laying out ingredients, rare and expensive ones, each more surprising than the last. By the twelfth item, Hermione’s breath caught.

“You want to brew Felix Felicis?”

Theo looked up, lips twitching. “You figured that out even faster than I expected.”

She gaped at him. “Theo, this—this is an advanced potion. And the ingredients alone—how did you even get—?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I figure we might need a little luck in the coming years.”

Hermione stared at the array on the table, heart thudding in her chest. Felix Felicis. Liquid luck. Difficult. Dangerous. Prohibitively expensive. 

The idea thrilled her.

She met Theo’s eyes and grinned.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s make some luck.”

Theo rolled up the sleeves of his jumper with quiet precision, his wand already in hand as he surveyed the workspace. “We’ll need a base similar to Essence of Euphoria to start—without the euphoric additives, obviously,” he said, reaching for a curved-bladed silver knife. “It’s meant to hold the luck-stabilizing agents later on.”

Hermione stepped forward, already tying the bottom half of her hair back with a conjured ribbon. “I’ve made that base before. Sixth year with Slughorn.”

Theo nodded, passing her a cutting board and a jar of dried shrivelfigs.

“I’ll prep the infusion,” he said. “You start the syrup reduction.”

They moved together without further instruction—Hermione peeling and slicing the shrivelfigs with practiced ease while Theo measured out precise drops of moondew extract into a glass crucible. Their motions were clean, efficient, quiet—punctuated only by the soft clink of instruments and the low burble of a warming cauldron.

Hermione added a spoonful of powdered marigold root to the syrup mixture, stirring counter-clockwise with a slow, steady rhythm. A soft gold sheen began to form, swirling at the surface like ink in water.

Standing beside her, Theo observed—his brow faintly furrowed, lips pursed in concentration. It struck Hermione that he looked surprisingly at home here… sleeves pushed up, fingers stained faintly orange from the powdered ingredients. 

“You brew like someone who does this for fun,” she said, casting him a sidelong glance.

“I do do this for fun,” he replied, not looking up. “Don’t you?”

Hermione snorted softly. “No—only ever for the sake of good grades.”

Theo finally looked over, eyes bright with amusement. “Clearly you’ve forgotten the joy of learning for the sake of learning.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

After another ten minutes, their mixture had begun to thicken. Theo poured in a measured vial of salamander bile in a slow, careful stream, and the contents of the cauldron suddenly shimmered, turning a translucent amber.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “Now it needs to rest.”

Hermione exhaled, a bit surprised by how smoothly the first phase had gone. “That was… oddly satisfying.”

Theo set down his ladle and summoned two stools from across the room. “Brewing tends to be. A good potion doesn’t just come together—it decides to work with you. Like a negotiation.”

Hermione slid onto the offered stool and arched a brow at him. “You sound like Snape.”

“I do spend a lot of time with him,” Theo said dryly. “Don’t hold it against me.”

She tilted her head, curious. “You… spend time with him?”

He shrugged, eyes tracking the gentle swirl of steam rising from the cauldron. “We have things in common.”

Hermione blinked. That wasn’t the answer she’d expected.

“He’s… not what most people think,” Theo went on, his voice even. “At least not with the Slytherins. Especially the ones with complicated families.”

Hermione sat very still.

“He doesn’t hover,” Theo added, “but he notices things. If you show up with bruises after the holidays, he never asks. But suddenly you’ve got a tub of bruise paste and solo access to a private lab for extra brewing practice.”

Hermione felt a twist in her chest. She looked at him, then immediately looked away—afraid of what her face might give away.

“My father was a Death Eater,” he continued simply. “Still is, really. Just doesn’t have a Dark Lord to bow to right now.”

The bluntness of it hit her like cold water. No defensiveness. No apology. Just… fact.

“He’s not a good father,” Theo said. “Not even a decent one.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “And your mum?”

“Died in childbirth.” His voice didn’t waver. “I don’t remember her.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, and Hermione wasn’t sure what to do with the ache blooming in her chest. She had expected evasions. Deflections. Not this quiet, unwavering openness.

Theo didn’t seem embarrassed or defensive. Just… tired.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally.

He gave a small, one-shouldered shrug. “Not your fault.”

“But still,” she murmured.

Theo studied her for a moment, then—surprisingly gently—said, “You don’t have to carry every grief that doesn’t belong to you.”

Hermione looked away again. “I know.”

But he was still watching her, that strange stillness of his unfolding into something that felt like understanding. “Do you?” he asked, softly.

She didn’t answer.

The potion burbled behind them, warm and coppery, casting faint amber light on the ceiling.

The silence that followed settled deep. Not uncomfortable—just weighty, full of things neither of them said aloud.

Theo was the one to break it.

“Would you tell me,” he asked quietly, “what happened? After the graveyard.”

Hermione glanced up at him, brows drawn.

“In your original timeline,” he clarified. “What came after Cedric died. After Voldemort came back.”

Her breath caught slightly, but she didn’t look away. She knew from his tone that he just wanted to understand. To fit the pieces together in his mind.

She sighed, running a hand through her curls (Lavender would be furious). “It’s probably time.”

Theo didn’t speak. He just waited—steady and patient and present in a way she was learning to expect from him.

Hermione let her gaze settle on the glowing potion behind them, the gentle swirl of red-gold and heat and promise.

And then, softly, she began.

“Fifth year was… awful,” she said. “No one believed Harry. Not about the graveyard, not about Voldemort. The Ministry did everything they could to discredit him.”

Theo’s expression tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“They sent a woman named Dolores Umbridge to the school. Made her ‘High Inquisitor.’ She tortured Harry. Literally. She scarred Harry with a blood quill during his detentions.” Her voice was steady, but her hand trembled slightly on the table. “She sacked professors. Took over every aspect of school life. And…” Hermione smiled faintly, “...I had this brilliant idea to form a defense group to train in secret.”

Theo nodded faintly. “I’ve Seen flashes of that. You and Harry, training other students. Even Longbottom.”

Hermione gave a faint smile. “Neville was brilliant, in the end.”

Her voice faltered, just slightly, as she went on. “That year ended with a trap. Voldemort lured Harry to the Department of Mysteries, and a handful of us went with him. Fought Death Eaters there. We were lucky none of us died.” She grimaced. “After the Order of the Phoenix showed up, Harry’s godfather—Sirius Black—did die. He fell through the Veil.”

Theo nodded; Hermione knew that meant he had Seen that particular death.

“Sixth year was even worse, somehow,” she said after a beat. “Draco Malfoy was given the Mark. Dumbledore knew that he had a mission from Voldemort to assassinate him and did nothing. Draco was sloppy—he nearly killed Katie Bell and Ron. Then, when Draco finally succeeded… they got in.”

Theo’s eyes darkened. “The Death Eaters.”

Hermione nodded. “And Snape… killed Dumbledore.”

Theo flinched. Like the words hit somewhere he couldn’t brace for—like he had Seen it but wanted to believe it was wrong.

Hermione, now knowing what Snape meant to Theo, hastened to explain: “It was just part of his cover, Theo—not because he truly supported the Dark Lord. Dumbledore was already dying from a curse and asked Snape to kill him to solidify his rank among the Death Eaters.”

Theo visibly shook as he exhaled, and his face dropped into his hands. “So he supports Harry, in the end?” he asked, voice muffled.

“Yes,” Hermione whispered. 

They sat in silence for a moment as Theo just breathed. When he looked back up, his eyes shone ever-so-slightly. Hermione reached out, interlocking her fingers with his. He didn’t speak.

Hermione steadied herself and went on.

“The summer after Dumbledore’s death, everything collapsed. The Ministry fell. Voldemort took control from within. They installed puppets. Made it illegal to help Muggle-borns. Rounded them up and sent them to Azkaban. It was finally all-out war.”

She went quiet again, then added, more softly than before, “I obliviated my parents.”

Theo’s grasp tightened.

“I sent them to Australia with new identities,” she whispered. “They would have been targets if I hadn’t—everyone knew I was on the run with Harry. So I ensured they wouldn’t come back—that they wouldn’t remember me.”

Her voice broke on the last words.

The potion simmered gently behind them, as if aware of the gravity in the room but refusing to interrupt it.

Theo didn’t let go of her hand.

“Harry, Ron, and I were tasked with hunting down and destroying Voldemort’s horcruxes.” Hermione paused to look at Theo. “Do you know what those are?”

He nodded, saying simply, “I’ve Seen you explain it before.”

She nodded back.

“Dumbledore…” Hermione closed her eyes and tried to breathe through her frustration. “He gave Harry so little to go on. We didn’t even know how to destroy them once we found them.”

Theo watched her, brows furrowed.

“I don’t know what he was playing at,” she murmured absently, “but he also left obscure hints about the Deathly Hallows for Harry—like it was a bloody scavenger hunt.”

“I know about the Hallows, too,” Theo commented before Hermione could ask.

Hermione hummed. “They were admittedly important in the end.”

“How, though?” Theo asked. “I haven’t Seen anything past Godric’s Hollow—” his eyes jumped to Hermione’s, “—the run in with the snake did happen in your original timeline, right?”

She nodded with a grimace.

“Good,” Theo mumbled darkly. The unspoken ‘Because I won’t let that happen again’ hung in the air.

“The Hallows were important, in the end,” Hermione continued, “because they made Harry the Master of Death, apparently.” She forced a smile, watching Theo’s sapphire eyes as she said, “That’s how he reset the timeline—how he sent me back.”

Theo gaped. Hermione felt something twist in her chest as she watched him piece things together. 

“You… died? In your timeline?”

Hermione merely nodded.

“Can you…” Theo looked almost green as he asked, “Can you explain what happened?”

She gave a small nod, then started from the beginning:

“There was a battle at Hogwarts. We had destroyed most of the horcruxes, but had to return to the castle to find the last one. Ravenclaw’s diadem. We found it, destroyed it, and then Voldemort called a temporary ceasefire.” She swallowed. “He told Harry to come to the forest—to give himself up—and then he would let everyone else live.”

Hermione stood from her stool and began pacing, a sickening energy pumping through her veins as she pushed through recounting the story. “Snape had given Harry some memories before he died. I didn’t see them until later, but they were essentially a last message from Dumbledore—left with Snape so that Harry could be told at the last possible moment that he was a horcrux. A part of Voldemort’s soul had attached itself to Harry on the night his body was destroyed.”

Theo stared. Silent.

“Dumbledore said Harry had to die for Voldemort to die. And so Harry marched into the forest like the martyr he is and let Voldemort hit him with an Avada.” She scuffed the toe of her boot on the floor. “I didn’t see that part. I was up in Dumbledore’s office watching the memories—trying to figure out where Harry had gone off to.”

Hermione saw the memory of Dumbledore talking to Snape play in her mind again and hatred boiled in her gut. 

Dumbledore had sent Harry to die.

“Voldemort and his inner circle came back from the forest with Harry’s dead body in tow. They announced that the war was over, and told us all to bow. Neville refused. Some weird things happened that are honestly too hard to explain, but the end result was him chopping off the head of Voldemort’s snake—his last horcrux.” Her voice turned musing as she added, “I wish I knew how he knew to do that… maybe Harry told him.”

A look of confusion passed over Theo’s face at that point. “But… if you destroyed all of the horcruxes…”

“Why reset the timeline?” Hermione finished. 

Theo nodded.

“Harry didn’t like how things ended. How many people had to die to end things.” Hermione grimaced. “He took particular issue with the fact that I had died.”

She saw Theo flinch and give a small nod of agreement. He cleared his throat. “So, Potter just has the power to rewrite time itself?”

Hermione snorted in spite of the dark topic. “Apparently. All I know is what he told me before sending me back.”

“Which is…?”

With a sigh, she sat back on her stool and started recounting the strangest and most heartbreaking conversation of her life, her tone dead:

“Harry had collected all of the Deathly Hallows, and, as the last descendent of the Peverell line, became Master of Death. It had been Dumbledore’s plan all along. Harry would hand himself over to die, the horcrux in his body would be destroyed, and Harry would be able to return to life to defeat Voldemort once and for all. Happily. Ever. After.

“But instead, Harry died, learned he was Master of Death and could do almost anything he wanted, and chose not to return. He suddenly knew the name of every single person who had died in the war, and every person who would soon die in the final duel to end Voldemort—with or without his involvement. That included me. He blamed himself for every single one of those deaths and decided that he didn’t deserve to live.

“It was very…” Hermione closed her eyes in exasperation, “...Harry, of him.”

Seeing the question that she didn’t want to answer on the tip of Theo’s tongue ("Who killed you?”), Hermione pressed on with her explanation: “Harry and I spoke after I died, and he told me that he wanted to send me back—or, send back my memories, rather. He would reset the timeline at the beginning of fourth year, and put his trust in the brilliant Hermione Granger to help fix everything.” She rolled her eyes at that. “Except his idea of ‘fixing things’ would have been for no one to die except for him.”

“Which you took issue with,” Theo supplied, a slight curl to his lips.

Hermione snorted. “Obviously.”

A beat passed. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad he sent you back, but I don’t understand why he didn’t come with you.” Theo avoided her eyes as he said hesitantly, “It sort of seems like he dumped all of the responsibility to fix things on you.”

Hermione raised her brows at that. “You clearly don’t know Harry.”

Theo frowned.

“I convinced Harry to let me go alone,” she explained. “I made up some excuse about Harry being a shite occlumens and it being safer for just my memories to be sent back.”

With a surprised blink, Theo blurted, “Why?”

She leaned forward, her smile sharp and eyes intent on Theo’s. “Because I have no intention of letting Harry martyr himself for the wizarding world. I plan to save everyone—including him—and that requires him being naive to who would have died in some now-irrelevant timeline.”

“But—” Theo gaped “—what are you going to do about the horcrux—?”

“Theo,” Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes. “He can’t die unless he wants to.”

Theo’s mouth popped open in realization.

“Now you’re getting it,” Hermione said, folding her arms with a small, self-satisfied nod.

He gave her a long look, then made a face. “So… you're banking on Diggory shagging the martyr complex out of him?”

Hermione blinked, visibly appalled. “Really? That’s your takeaway from all of this?”

Theo gave a small, sheepish shrug, but she could see the smirk forming at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m counting on Harry having plenty of people worth coming back for the next time he meets Death,” she said with exasperation. “Friends and a future he would want to live out instead of a pile of dead bodies and guilt.”

Theo sobered again, the moment of levity passing like a cloud across the sun.

“I see,” he murmured. “And you?”

Hermione tilted her head. “What about me?”

“Do you get to build a life, too?” he asked, not quite looking at her.

The question settled between them with quiet intensity.

She didn’t answer right away. The potion simmered behind them, releasing a warm breath of golden steam that curled upward like a question mark.

Then, softly: “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

Theo glanced at her then, his expression unreadable. But something in his gaze felt like a promise.

The timer beside the cauldron chimed once—low and bell-like—signaling that the base had rested long enough.

Hermione stood, brushing her fingers across the worn wooden tabletop as she moved to check the brew. “Right,” she said, steadying her voice. “Let’s make some luck.”

Theo joined her, his shoulder brushing hers.

And they began again.

Chapter Text

Harry

Harry had just managed to get one arm into his dress robes when the door to the dormitory creaked open behind him.

“I swear to every god with a Latin name, Potter, if that’s how you plan to wear those robes—”

Harry startled so hard he nearly fell sideways into his trunk. “Theo?”

The Slytherin strolled in like he owned the place, looking far too composed in deep blue dress robes with sharp bronze embroidery along the cuffs. He glanced once at Harry’s half-dressed form and grimaced.

“What kind of imbecile puts on dress robes wrong?” he asked, incredulous.

Harry scowled. “They can’t be wrong if I haven’t even put them on yet!”

Theo raised a brow and crossed to sit on the edge of Harry’s bed with all the grace of someone about to pass a royal verdict. “Actually, they can. In my dream you showed up wearing them backwards.”

Harry muttered something impolite under his breath and turned back to the mirror, shrugging the strange robes back on so that they buttoned on the right instead of the left. They were a deep forest green—almost black in certain lighting—and shimmered like ivy in the rain. They fit him surprisingly well—tailored sharp through the chest and waist with clean, close lines that emphasized his frame. Below the hips, overlapping panels of fabric fell in angular, layered cuts—almost reminiscent of a duelist’s coat. The collar stood slightly high around the neck, somehow making him look taller, and the inner lining—visible only when the lower layers moved—was stitched with tiny silver threads in sweeping arcs, like wind patterns. 

They brought out the green in his eyes so sharply he hardly recognized himself at first.

Behind him, Theo let out a low, aggrieved hum. “Well. That’s upsetting.”

Harry turned. “What is?”

Theo gave him a long, slow once-over, then sighed dramatically. “You’re upstaging me.”

Harry blinked. “I—what?”

Theo gestured vaguely at him, expression pained. “You’ve somehow landed on an infuriating midpoint between ‘ethereal woodland nymph’ and ‘rugged prince.’ It’s frankly obnoxious.”

Harry’s mouth opened. Closed.

“You’re lucky Hermione sees you as her brother,” Theo muttered darkly, throwing himself back onto the bed. Then, in a change of mood that could induce whiplash, he snickered. “Diggory’s going to black out when he sees you.”

Harry flushed so hard his ears prickled.

Without even bothering to sit back up, Theo barked out, “Fix your fringe before I vomit.”

Harry shot him a glare in the mirror.

Theo returned it lazily. 

Their silent glaring match was interrupted when the door swung open again, letting in a gust of warm air and the sound of footsteps on stone.

Seamus entered first, followed by Ron and Neville. They all froze at the sight of Theodore Nott lounging on Harry’s bed like he belonged there.

Ron’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “What the hell is he doing here?”

Theo didn’t flinch. “Waiting to pick up my date.”

Ron’s face went through several colors in rapid succession. “Your what?”

“Picking up Hermione,” Theo said cheerfully. “We’re going to the Ball. You may have heard of it.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at Theo in the mirror.

Theo caught his look and offered a mischievous smile in return.

Neville, mercifully, piped up before Ron could explode. “Ginny and I are meeting Luna and the Patil twins in the Entrance Hall.”

“Dean has detention,” Seamus added, making a face.

Harry turned to grab his dress shoes, just as Ron blurted, “Hermione’s going with him?”

The room went tense.

“Yes,” Harry said, calm but firm. “She is.”

Ron’s jaw clicked shut, and Harry didn’t miss the way Theo’s fingers drummed a lazy rhythm on the blanket like he hadn’t noticed a thing.

They made their way down to the common room after that—Theo following just behind Harry as if he had every right to be walking through Gryffindor Tower. 

When they reached the bottom step, Hermione looked up—and froze.

Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of Theo in his elegant robes, standing beside Harry like it was the most normal thing in the world. Her expression flitted between surprise and confusion and something warm and unguarded that Harry was not going to make fun of her for. Yet.

Theo gave a little bow. “Miss Granger. You look radiant.”

Hermione blinked, then huffed a laugh and shook her head. “Of course you’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” Theo asked lightly, offering her his arm.

As Hermione stepped forward to take it, he leaned in and murmured just under his breath, “I might have mentioned to Weasley that you were my date. As a sort of… preemptive excuse for being here and saving Potter from social annihilation.”

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. “That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”

Theo merely smirked. 

“And what would you have done if I already had a date?” she asked.

He gave her a slow, smug smile. “Don’t be silly. I know you turned down all your suitors—including a certain Bulgarian.”

Harry, standing just ahead of them, frowned slightly. “Wait—who’s the Bulgarian?”

Theo didn’t answer.

Hermione cleared her throat and looked very pointedly at the ceiling.

Harry gaped. “Did Krum—?”

“We should really get moving!” Hermione said briskly, already steering Theo toward the portrait hole.

Theo shot Harry a wink over his shoulder.

Harry coughed a laugh and followed.

The walk to the Entrance Hall passed in a blur of polished shoes and flickering torchlight—a gentle hum of anticipation in the air. Harry found himself drifting beside Hermione while Theo held her arm with the elegance of someone born for formal events. 

When they reached the base of the Grand Staircase, a dazzling sweep of movement and light met them—students from all four houses in their finest dress robes, paired off or clustered in groups, the air thick with nerves and perfume and the occasional puff of glitter from someone's overzealous glamours.

Then Harry saw Cedric.

He stood near the doors to the Great Hall, talking quietly with one of the Beauxbatons boys. His hair caught in the torchlight like spun gold and for a moment Harry forgot how to move.

Cedric’s dress robes were midnight blue, cut from some subtly enchanted fabric that caught the light like water—shifting between ink and stormcloud as he moved. The tailored fabric was open at the collar in a deep, structured V that revealed a flash of collarbone and the crisp edge of a white linen underlayer beneath. Bronze embroidery threaded its way along the lapels and cuffs in an understated pattern—stars, maybe, or constellations—but only visible when the light hit just right.

He looked—Harry’s brain helpfully supplied—like a prince.

Theo tugged Hermione away and, suddenly, Harry was left all alone.

Cedric spotted him instantly. His entire face lit up.

“Merlin,” Cedric murmured, striding toward him. “You look…”

Harry swallowed.

“…unfairly good,” Cedric finished, his voice low and slightly rough. “How is anyone supposed to focus on dancing with you in the room?”

Harry could feel a blush prickling under his skin. He fiddled with the hem of his sleeve and tried not to stare at Cedric's exposed collarbone. “I—I had help.”

“I ought to send Hermione a thank-you card,” Cedric murmured, leaning in.

Just as Cedric kissed him, a bright flash went off to the left. 

Harry jerked back, startled—and immediately flushed deeper.

“Oh Gods—not again,” he whined, wanting to hide his face.

It was the Daily Prophet’s photographer. McGonagall had mentioned they’d be covering the Tournament’s “cultural events,” but Harry hadn’t realized that included the Ball.

Cedric winced sympathetically. “Sorry. I forgot they would be here.”

Harry glanced around at the crowd, shifting nervously.

Cedric leaned closer again, his voice low and reassuring. “Everything will be alright. It’s just dinner and one dance, yeah? Then we can vanish into the courtyard or—” he winked “—a broom cupboard, if you prefer.”

Harry’s heart gave a completely inappropriate flutter at that. “Okay,” he said, voice barely audible over the music starting up behind the doors. “One dance. Then vanish.”

Cedric smiled. “Deal.”

The enormous oak doors creaked open, and music from inside swelled as the crowd began moving forward in glittering pairs. Cedric reached for Harry’s hand, lacing their fingers and squeezing gently—just enough to anchor him.

Harry let himself be led, acutely aware of how many eyes might be following them. It was surprisingly hard to care, though, with Cedric walking beside him like he was proud to be there. Like Harry was someone worth looking at.

The Great Hall had been transformed. The ceiling mirrored a snowy night sky, glittering with stars. Icicles sparkled along the walls, and the usual long House tables had vanished, replaced by elegant round ones draped in silver and white. A larger table sat at the front, set for the champions and their dates.

Harry focused on not tripping as they crossed the floor toward it.

They took their seats—Harry and Cedric across from Fleur and Roger Davies, who were engaged in what could only be described as synchronized eyelash fluttering. Harry barely heard what Cedric was saying at first; he was too distracted by trying to select the correct utensils.

But Cedric nudged his knee under the table and leaned over, voice low and amused. “Breathe, Harry. It’s just soup.”

Harry exhaled shakily. “Right. Soup.”

Dinner passed in a blur of enchanted plates and murmured conversation. Cedric was warm and steady beside him—never crowding, never demanding—just there. Every so often, he’d lean in to ask something—about the music, or if Harry had tried the spiced wine—and every time Harry forgot to be nervous for a moment or two.

It wasn’t until the music shifted—slowing, becoming unmistakably waltz-like—that Harry’s stomach did a backflip.

“Time to earn our keep,” Cedric said, rising and holding out a hand.

Harry blinked at him.

“The Champions’ dance, remember?”

“Oh. Right. Brilliant.”

He took Cedric’s hand, desperately hoping his own wasn’t clammy, and let himself be led to the center of the floor where a space had opened up beneath the floating candles. The other champions were already finding their positions. Fleur looked ethereal beside Davies and Krum deeply uncomfortable beside—Harry did a double take—Cho Chang; apparently, she was his date. 

Harry turned back to Cedric and tried to swallow his panic.

“Stop worrying so much,” Cedric murmured with a suppressed smile. “Just follow my lead.”

The music began.

Harry placed one hand on Cedric’s shoulder and let Cedric guide the other into an outstretched position.

To his great relief—and even greater shock—he didn’t trip.

Cedric’s hand was firm at his waist, his movements smooth and sure. He spun them gently, guiding Harry with just enough pressure that Harry didn’t have to think. He just had to move. Breathe. Be there.

“You’re doing fine,” Cedric murmured warmly, voice low and close to Harry’s ear. “Better than fine, really.”

Harry didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was too busy trying not to blush himself inside-out.

The dance carried on, graceful and gliding. Around them, the other students were beginning to join in. But Harry hardly noticed.

For now, it was just them. Cedric’s hand at his waist. The low swell of music. The soft echo of their shoes against the polished floor.

And before anything could go terribly wrong, the song ended.

Cedric didn’t let go immediately. His hand lingered at Harry’s waist a beat longer than necessary, thumb brushing gently against the fabric of his robes. Then, with a quiet grin, he stepped back and offered his hand again.

“Come on,” he said, voice pitched just for Harry. “Let’s disappear.”

Harry didn’t argue.

They slipped away from the crowd as more students flooded the dance floor, passing through the side doors and out into the softly lit gardens. The chill in the air was subdued by charm-warmed paths and floating globes of golden light that hovered between snow-dusted hedges. A delicate frost clung to the grass, sparkling underfoot.

Cedric led him past a fountain—its water stilled for the winter—into a quiet alcove shielded by bushes of holly. The sounds of music and laughter were muffled here, replaced by the soft crunch of their shoes and the gentle rustle of wind in the hedges.

Harry exhaled, feeling some invisible pressure in his chest finally ease. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For… putting up with me.”

Cedric blinked. “Putting up with you?”

“I know I’m not exactly—” Harry waved vaguely at the path behind them, “—suave. Or charming. Or even very good at being looked at.”

Cedric stared at him like he’d grown a second scar.

Harry grimaced and looked away, rambling now. “I just get… flustered. And awkward. And my brain shuts off whenever you look at me.”

Cedric stepped closer. Gently, he reached out and tilted Harry’s face toward his own, thumb and forefinger firm along his jaw. His thumb brushed back and forth, tender and certain. “You don’t even realize, do you? How desirable you are.”

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

“You’re brave,” Cedric murmured. “Not just when it counts, but all the time—despite being shy. You care more for protecting others than you do yourself.”

Cedric placed a sweet kiss on Harry’s lips.

“You are both strikingly handsome and adorable,” he said softly. “And you are remarkably unaware of it. I doubt you have a single arrogant bone in your body.”

Harry’s throat tightened. 

“You look at people like they matter,” Cedric went on, “and when you look at me like that…” He swallowed. “I forget how to breathe.”

Harry dropped his gaze. “I… don’t know how to believe any of that.”

Cedric’s hand slid from Harry’s jaw to his cheek. “I know,” he said gently. “You were taught to see yourself all wrong.”

Harry bit his lip, wondering if that might just be true.

Cedric leaned in, brow brushing Harry’s. “I’ll just have to keep telling you—until you see yourself the way that I do.”

When words failed him, Harry settled for kissing Cedric instead—quiet and reverent and full of everything he didn’t yet know how to say. His hands curled into Cedric’s robes, holding on gently but fiercely. Cedric responded in kind, arms wrapping around him in a way that felt like shelter, like choosing, like yes.

They kissed until the cold began to nibble at Harry’s cheeks again, until the sound of the world seemed very far away—

“Oh.”

The sound cut through the moment like a blade.

Harry froze.

They both turned, and there—half-shadowed in the archway leading back toward the main path—stood Cho Chang, eyes wide and mouth half-parted like she hadn’t meant to make a sound but couldn’t quite stop herself.

“Cho,” Cedric said, calm but guarded. “Hey.”

Cho blinked like she’d only just remembered how. She took a step forward, arms crossed tightly over her midsection. Her dress robes were icy blue silk, flattering and clearly chosen with care. There was a small smear of shimmery lip gloss at the edge of her lip. “Sorry,” she said, tone brittle. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

“We were just getting some air,” Cedric said quietly. “It’s a bit loud in there.”

“Right,” Cho said, voice still too casual. Her eyes flicked to Harry—just briefly—but it was enough to make him want to sink through the garden path.

She turned her gaze back to Cedric. “Krum asked me, you know.”

Cedric nodded once. “I know. I saw.”

“And I said yes,” she added, a little too brightly. “Because I thought—well. I thought maybe you’d realize that you care.”

Harry wanted to look away but forced himself not to. He felt a strange mixture of guilt and indignation.

This wasn’t about him. Not really. But it didn’t feel great either.

Cho gave a short, breathy laugh and looked down. “I don’t know what I thought. I guess I didn’t expect you to be out here with him.”

“Cho,” Cedric said, a slight edge to his voice, “Harry didn’t do anything wrong.”

She looked up, startled by the firmness in his tone.

Cedric held her gaze. “He doesn’t deserve whatever that was meant to imply.”

Cho’s mouth opened, then closed again. Her expression shifted—less brittle, more conflicted. “I didn’t mean—” She sighed. “I’m not blaming him. I just… it’s hard not to feel replaced.”

Before Cedric could say anything in response, she turned to Harry. “I’m sorry—that wasn’t fair of me. I know you didn’t do anything.”

Harry blinked. “Er. Okay?”

“You’re lucky,” she added. “Just… don’t mess it up.”

A flare of annoyance sparked in Harry’s chest.

Before Harry or Cedric could say anything else, Cho turned on her heel and walked briskly back toward the castle.

Cedric exhaled slowly.

Harry, still reeling and slightly peeved, asked, “Was that meant to be her blessing or a threat?”

Cedric gave a huff of a laugh. “Little of both, maybe.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the frost glinting faintly underfoot.

“Do you want to head back inside?” Cedric asked eventually.

Harry considered it. The music, the people, the eyes.

He wrinkled his nose. “Not really.”

Cedric grinned. “Come on, then. I’ve got a better idea than standing out here in the cold.”

They wandered back along the garden path, Cedric leading them past the main entryway and toward the far side of the greenhouses. The night air was crisp, their breath curling silver in the torchlight. When they reached a smaller archway of ivy and frost-covered lanterns, Cedric paused and muttered a quiet charm under his breath.

A little gate creaked open.

Harry followed him through and immediately felt warmer—the effect was soft and subtle, like early spring. The small courtyard was enclosed by hedges and half-covered by an overgrown trellis overhead, the snow charmed to stay suspended in the ivy rather than fall. A few enchanted lanterns floated lazily in the air, flickering with golden light. A bench curved along one side, half-covered in plush conjured cushions that looked recently placed.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Did you plan this?”

Cedric tried to look innocent. “I might’ve prepared a backup in case the Ball was too much.”

Harry sat carefully on the bench, the cushion warm beneath him. “You’re… ridiculously thoughtful.”

“And you’re terrible at compliments,” Cedric laughed, dropping beside him.

He reached over and took Harry’s hand, twining their fingers together slowly—like he wanted to make sure Harry didn’t mind. He didn’t.

They sat like that for a while, warmth seeping into their skin, the soft rustle of leaves above them like quiet music. Cedric leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Harry watched him for a long moment.

“You really like me,” Harry said, almost incredulous.

Cedric cracked one eye open and smiled. “Yes, Harry. I really like you.”

Harry tried not to grin like an idiot. 

(He failed.)

Cedric didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked quietly enchanted, like the sight of Harry smiling—really smiling—was something precious.

They sat in silence for a little while longer, hand in hand, the soft light from the lanterns painting gentle gold along their skin. The trellis above rustled faintly with wind-charmed ivy, and the suspended snow sparkled like stars trapped mid-fall.

Cedric turned toward him, voice low and tentative. “Now that we’re well away from lurking photographers and party-goers… Can I kiss you again?”

Harry nodded before Cedric even finished asking.

This kiss was slow and steady, like they had all the time in the world. Cedric cupped Harry’s cheek with one hand, the other still twined with his. Their mouths met with unhurried softness; they had no audience to worry about, just the hush of winter around them and the quiet press of breath and lips.

Harry melted into it.

He could feel the tension in his shoulders unwinding, the knot of nerves he’d carried since the Ball began slowly loosening. Cedric kissed him like it was as easy as breathing. Like Harry didn’t have to be charming or elegant or anyone but himself.

When they finally broke apart, Cedric rested his forehead against Harry’s.

“You alright?” he murmured.

Harry smiled. “Never been better.”

“Still no desire to go back?”

“Very much not.”

Cedric chuckled and tugged him gently sideways. “Then come here.”

He guided Harry to lie back with him on the bench, his arm tucked around Harry’s shoulders and their legs tangled just enough to be comfortable. The conjured cushions adjusted beneath them with a soft rustle of magic. Cedric shifted so that Harry’s head could rest against his chest, and Harry let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The world felt quieter here.

Softer.

They lay like that for a long while, speaking only in quiet touches—fingers brushing along knuckles, an absent hand in hair, slow breaths syncing up without effort.

At one point, Cedric pressed a kiss to the top of Harry’s head and whispered, “Told you I’d handle it.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just curled closer.

And let himself feel wanted.

The last thing Harry remembered was the steady rhythm of Cedric’s heartbeat beneath his cheek, the warmth of his arms around him, and the soft, floating lights above.

At some point, the world had gone quiet.

And then—

“HARRY JAMES POTTER!”

Harry jolted upright so fast he nearly fell off the bench.

Cedric stirred beside him, blinking sleepily as Hermione emerged through the ivy arch. She was wild-haired and wearing her winter cloak over pajamas—the Marauder’s Map clenched in one furious hand.

“Hermione?” Harry croaked. “What—what time is it?”

“Much too early for me to be traipsing around the grounds like some lunatic trying to make sure you haven’t drowned in the Black Lake!” she snapped. “I woke up and Neville said that you never came back last night, and I thought—Merlin, I don’t know what I thought—!”

“Wait, wait—” Harry scrambled to his feet, flushing scarlet. “Nothing happened! We were just—sleeping, that’s all! I swear—”

Hermione threw her hands in the air. “Do I look like your mother?! I don’t care who you snog or shag, Harry—honestly!”

Harry felt the mortification radiating off him like sunlight.

Cedric, now fully sitting up and rubbing his eyes, blinked at the pair of them. “This is the most entertaining wake-up I’ve ever had.”

“Oh, good,” Hermione grumbled, arms crossed. “I’m so glad you’re amused.”

Cedric hummed blithely. “I’ve never seen Harry reach that shade of red—you’ve got a real knack for embarrassing him.”

Harry wished he could evaporate.

Cedric peered at the parchment in Hermione’s hand and said, with sudden interest, “Is that the map Harry told me about?”

Hermione yanked it out of his reach. “Not the point.”

“Can I just—?”

“No!”

Harry buried his face in his hands with a groan.

Hermione turned on him again, voice still sharp with leftover panic. “You scared me half to death. What if something had happened? What if you were dead in a ditch? What if someone had—had—Merlin, Harry—because of you I had to talk to Ronald, who was a complete arsehole!”

Harry dropped his hands. “What did Ron say?”

“Nothing worth repeating,” she huffed. But at the glare Harry shot her she faltered, mumbling, “He accused me of… of ‘sleeping with the enemy,’ if you must know.”

Cedric stiffened.

Harry’s jaw clenched. “He what?”

Hermione waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve heard worse. Don’t waste your energy.”

But Harry didn’t miss the faint flare of her nostrils—or the way her fingers tightened around the map.

“He doesn’t get to say things like that to you,” Harry muttered.

“No,” she agreed, “he doesn’t. And eventually he’ll figure out how mistaken he was. But until then—”

She pointed an accusatory finger at Harry. “—I’m cold, I’m hungry, and I want to open Christmas presents. So you’d best get your arse back up to the castle. Now.”

Harry turned back to Cedric, still red-faced. “Sorry.”

Cedric stood, brushing off his robes, and leaned in close. “Don’t be,” he murmured.

Harry pressed a quick kiss to Cedric’s cheek, then whispered against his skin, “Thank you. For everything. That was… the perfect night.”

As he pulled away, he caught it—a faint, unmistakable blush dusting Cedric’s cheekbones.

Harry smiled to himself and jogged after Hermione, who was already marching up the path toward the castle with great purpose.

She called over her shoulder, loud enough for the whole castle to hear, “Your boyfriend owes me a new pair of pajamas!”

Behind them, Harry heard Cedric burst into bright, unbothered laughter.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The castle was quieter than usual, muffled by snow and the collective exhaustion of a post-Ball student body. Hermione had already opened her presents with Harry—he’d blinked at her in stunned silence when the (somewhat illegal) eyesight-correcting potion kicked in, then promptly handed over a thoughtfully chosen book on mental health journeys and a scarf so soft it had to be charmed cashmere. She’d felt seen in a way she hadn’t expected.

Breakfast had been late, scattered, and full of glittery second-day makeup. Theo wasn’t there (unsurprisingly—collecting Harry from behind the Greenhouses had slowed the start to her morning rather substantially). Ron had been unbearable—again—and Hermione had barely managed to stop Harry from hexing him when the prat made another sideways comment about “sleeping with filthy snakes.”

She left after eating hastily, bundled in her cloak and cradling a small, carefully wrapped box in her hands.

The corridors were cold and quiet, and her mind kept drifting back—unbidden but not unwelcome—to fragments of the night before.

Dancing with Theo had been nothing like she’d feared. He’d been elegant, of course—predictably poised and confident—but also mischievous, spinning her when she wasn’t expecting it, making her laugh aloud with a well-timed wink. He never looked away from her, not once. He watched her like she was the only thing in the room, and every time their eyes met, he smiled like he knew something she didn’t.

At dinner, they’d exchanged amused glances as Harry stumbled through trying not to combust beside Cedric. Poor Harry—handsome as ever in his green robes, but so visibly terrified of existing in public. Theo had leaned over at one point and dryly murmured, “Poor Diggory—that blush will blind him by the end of the night,” and Hermione had nearly choked on her pumpkin tart laughing.

Later, between songs, there’d been a quiet moment—just the two of them sitting close, his hand finding hers under the table. He’d traced slow circles over her knuckles with his thumb, as if he wasn’t even thinking about it. As if touching her was second nature.

And then… the gardens.

The way he’d kissed her there—soft and slow, like a question and an answer all at once—had left her dizzy. She hadn’t even remembered the walk back to Gryffindor Tower, only the warm goodbye on the steps, the lingering press of his lips on hers, and the wild, bubbling joy in her chest that had followed her all the way to bed.

She didn’t know if Theo would be in the potions lab right now. He hadn’t said anything about meeting this morning, and they hadn’t planned anything formal.

But she had a feeling he would be waiting wherever she first thought of looking.

And when she pushed open the door, the faint trace of bergamot told her she’d guessed right.

Theo was already inside, sitting with one foot up on a stool, scribbling in a notebook while the Felix base sat quietly steeping nearby. He didn’t look up right away—but she saw the moment he registered her presence. His posture shifted and a pleased smile quirked the corners of his lips.

“You’re late,” he said without turning around.

“I brought a gift,” she replied.

That made him look up.

Theo’s expression shifted as he took her in—she imagined she must look ruffled, with her hair now fighting against the Sleekeazy’s that she had doused it in the night before. She was wearing her new peach-pink scarf from Harry, but otherwise hadn’t put much thought into looking presentable.

“Finally!” he said, jumping to his feet with uncharacteristic impatience.

Hermione smiled wryly. “I take it you haven’t Seen it yet?”

“No!” Theo huffed in annoyance. “I’ve only Seen you showing up with the wrapped box—not what’s inside.”

“Well then,” she said wickedly, moving the package behind her back, “perhaps I should draw this out for longer.”

Theo narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

Hermione took a step backward toward the shelves, her expression faux-innocent. “I don’t know… maybe I like having the upper hand for once.”

Theo advanced slowly, like he was cornering prey. “Hermione. You’ve had the upper hand for months.”

“Then what’s one more minute?”

“I swear if you make me chase you around this lab—”

Hermione darted left.

Theo made a startled noise—half laugh, half incredulous groan—and gave chase.

It wasn’t a long pursuit. She juked behind a worktable; he followed, knocking aside a stool with a bang as he lunged. She squeaked and ducked away, clutching the box to her chest and giggling outright now, which only spurred Theo on.

“You are not this fast in Defense class!” he called as she dodged behind the cauldron stand.

“That’s because I usually have dignity!” she shouted back, breathless.

He caught her wrist as she tried to bolt again, and in a few ungraceful seconds, they ended up tangled against the edge of the table—Hermione laughing breathlessly, Theo trying not to look too pleased with himself as he pried the box from her fingers.

She let him have it, finally, her cheeks flushed from running and something else entirely.

“Fine, you win,” she panted, brushing a curl out of her face. “Go on then—open it.”

Theo unwrapped the gift with surprising care. Inside was a compact black device nestled atop a tidy coil of wires and a slim leather case labeled CDs.

Theo held up the walkman like it might explode. “Is this a Muggle artifact or a very light skipping stone?”

Hermione snorted. “It’s called a ‘walkman.’ It plays music. Usually these don't work around magic, but—” she shrugged, suddenly self-conscious, “—I’ve been working on a way to stabilize Muggle technology in high-magic environments. I finally cracked it a few weeks ago.”

Theo looked back at the object in his hands, brow furrowing.

“There’s a headphone jack—here—and you can change discs like this.” She demonstrated, swapping one CD for another with quick, practiced fingers. “I have one too—and a bunch of CDs—so if you don’t like these, I can lend you others. There’s an entire world of genres in Muggle music. You don’t even know what you’re missing.”

“Clearly,” he murmured, still staring at the thing with trepidation.

Then he slipped the headphones on.

Hermione hit play.

She faintly heard a low hum come first—then a swell of sound, rhythmic and alive. Something jazzy, upbeat, layered with complex harmony and percussion. Theo startled slightly, then smiled—really smiled—as the music washed through him.

His eyes lit up in a way that made Hermione’s chest thrum with satisfaction.

“Well,” he said, pulling the headphones down around his neck, “you’ve doomed me. I’m clearly going to become obsessed with Muggle music.”

She smirked. “You poor thing.”

Theo set the walkman carefully on the table and reached into the satchel at his feet. “Your turn.”

He drew out a smaller box—wrapped with brown paper and a sparkling silver twine—and handed it over.

Hermione unwrapped it slowly. Inside were two delicate pendants, resting on dark silk. One was a beautiful teardrop-shape with a smooth pearlescent finish, simple and elegant. It shimmered like frost-kissed glass in the light, and Hermione could already tell it would sit perfectly just above the heart. The other was simpler—darker in color, with a matte finish and the look of something that would sit discreetly under a collar.

She looked up, confused.

“The light one’s for you,” Theo said softly. “It warms if someone with harmful intent is aiming a wand at you. Makes you harder to sneak up on.”

Hermione blinked.

“The other’s for Potter.”

That caught her off guard.

“It’s keyed for mental protection. A kind of passive Occlumency shield,” Theo added, not meeting her eyes. “Doesn’t block everything, but it’ll muddy the water for anyone trying to poke around.”

Hermione stared at the box, then at Theo. “Half of my present is a present for Harry.”

“I’m aware.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, then laughed—unexpected and bright. “That’s so incredibly perfect.”

He rolled his eyes. “If you wouldn’t mind pretending it’s from you, that might be best. Diggory would probably get the wrong idea.”

“I’m sure he would,” she said, still smiling. “But thank you. Really. This… it means a lot.”

He shrugged. “Not a big deal.”

But it was.

It really, really was.

Hermione turned the pendant over in her fingers once more, then glanced up at Theo. “Would you… put it on me?”

He swallowed, looking surprised. “Yeah. Of course.”

She lifted her hair, gathering it in one hand and turning slightly so her back faced him. Her heart gave an annoying little flutter as she felt him step close behind her.

Theo worked the clasp carefully. His fingers were warm and surprisingly gentle, brushing against the nape of her neck as he settled the chain into place. The touch was nothing, really—barely there—but it sent goosebumps racing across her skin.

He didn’t comment on it.

Didn’t tease.

Just let his fingers linger for half a second longer than necessary before letting go.

Hermione exhaled slowly and turned back to face him.

“Thank you,” she said softly, touching the pendant now resting just over her heart. “For this. For Harry’s too.”

Theo shrugged. “Like I said—”

“It’s a very big deal,” she interrupted, gaze steady.

He didn’t argue.

She reached for him then, standing on her toes just slightly to kiss him. It was warm. Sure. Sweet and real. His hand found her waist, and hers cupped his jaw, thumb brushing lightly across his cheek.

When they parted, she smiled against his lips. “Happy Christmas, Theo.”

He leaned his forehead against hers, eyes closed for a beat. “Happy Christmas, Hermione.”

Hermione sat curled in the corner armchair of the Gryffindor common room, the Daily Prophet spread open across her knees like a battlefield report. Her expression grew stormier with every line she read.

A half-page photo on the inside cover featured Cedric Diggory, in full formal robes glory, kissing a besotted Harry Potter—not scandalous, exactly, but intimate and invasive enough to make Hermione's teeth grind.

She squinted at the byline. Not Rita Skeeter. But it hardly mattered when the headline was:

A ROMANCE… OR A RULE VIOLATION?
Unprecedented Alliance Between Triwizard Rivals Raises Eyebrows

Hermione exhaled through her nose, sharp and unamused.

She barely glanced up when Harry shuffled into the common room, hair still damp from a shower and sweater (another handsome acquisition from the Room of Requirement) inside-out. He froze the moment he saw the newspaper.

“Oh,” he said, looking slightly green.

“Oh,” Hermione echoed, deadpan. “You mean this?” She held up the page. “Tell me, Harry, why hasn’t your fancy new lawyer buried them in litigation yet?”

Harry winced. “I forgot to owl her.”

“You—Harry!”

“I know!”

He slumped into the armchair beside Hermione’s. “It’s just that… I think it will be more complicated now. With the whole magical majority thing.”

Hermione sighed. “That Heir-Who-Lied article was reprehensible slander, Harry—whether you’re legally an adult or not. I’m certain that it’s actionable.”

“Yeah, but… less so,” Harry mumbled. “Now they can argue that I’m a ‘public figure’ or some rot.”

Hermione shot him a glare that could have melted the lake. “Write to your lawyer. Today. Or I’ll compose a letter myself and include a paternity test.”

Harry grimaced. “That’s… probably a breach of… something.”

“Oh?” she asked with faux sweetness. “Then why don’t you sue me, Potter? You have a lawyer for that now.”

On the last day of the Yule break, Hogwarts was gifted one of those rare sunny winter days where the light made everything feel warmer than it actually was. The snow was still crisp on the lawns, but students had poured out of the castle anyway, clustering in scarves and cloaks across the grounds as if spring had arrived early by mistake.

Hermione had claimed a dry patch beneath a bare-limbed tree overlooking the lake, a frivolous mystery novel open on her lap and her back propped against the trunk. Her gloves made page-turning awkward, but she managed, flipping absently as the sharp slap of stones skidding across ice caught her attention.

Down by the lake’s edge, Harry and Cedric were locked in a deeply serious stone-skipping competition—if the way Harry pumped his fist in triumph after a particularly good throw was anything to go by. Cedric was laughing, scarf loose around his neck, dimples in full force.

Hermione smiled into her book.

A third figure approached—a tall Beauxbatons student, all cheekbones and confidence, with windswept dark hair and a coat that somehow billowed dramatically even without wind. He watched Harry skip a stone, clapped lightly, and said something with a faint French lilt.

Harry smiled at him. Cedric glanced sideways.

At first, it was friendly. The boy crouched to pick a stone of his own, flinging it with decent technique. But then the posture changed—the way he leaned a little closer when Harry laughed, the way his fingers brushed Harry’s elbow a beat too long. His compliments came quicker. His smile turned just a bit more pointed.

Hermione sighed, marked her page, and stood.

By the time she sidled up beside Cedric, his arms were crossed and his expression had soured. 

“He’s flirting with Harry,” Cedric muttered without prompting.

“I noticed,” Hermione said dryly. “Harry hasn’t.”

“Harry never notices.”

“Which is probably the only reason that boy still has a nose,” she quipped, tilting her head.

Cedric exhaled through his nose. “I know that Harry’s completely clueless and nothing will come of it. So why do I still want to hex that idiot’s hair right off him?”

Hermione smirked. “Would you like me to do it for you? It would give you plausible deniability.”

Before Cedric could answer, a voice chimed in just behind them—smooth, high, and unmistakably pointed.

“Well,” Cho said, arms folded loosely, “how awkward.”

Hermione turned, and there she was—perfect hair, flushed cheeks—with her gaze fixed on the two boys by the ice. “Not even a metre away,” she added. “Poor Cedric.”

Cedric’s jaw clicked. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Cho ignored him. “Flirting so openly, too. I would’ve expected better from Harry.”

“He’s not flirting,” Hermione snapped. “He’s just oblivious.”

Cho raised a brow. “You really think he doesn’t know?”

Cedric’s expression didn’t shift much, but Hermione saw the way his jaw set. He turned toward Cho with quiet precision, voice steady. “Harry is remarkably, sincerely unaware of his own appeal, Cho. And he isn’t stupid or cruel enough to go flirting with people right in front of me.”

“Maybe not,” Cho scoffed softly, her arms folding tighter. “But he does have a habit of getting attention without realizing it.”

Cedric’s shoulders stiffened. “Which isn’t a crime. And definitely not something to hold against him.”

Cho pressed on. “I just think it’s a little strange. How quickly things changed after Hogsmeade.”

Hermione saw the flicker of guilt flash across Cedric’s face, fast and hard.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quietly, but firmly. “I thought we were on the same page about just being friends. And I handled that badly, I know.”

Cho looked away.

“But this?” Cedric went on, gesturing loosely toward the lake where Harry was still chatting and skipping stones. “This isn’t a game. It’s not some competition you can try to ‘win.’ I care about Harry and he isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. If we’re ever going to patch up our friendship you’re going to have to accept that.”

Cho didn’t speak right away. 

“Fine. I’ll… let you get back to your ice skips,” she finally murmured.

She turned and walked away, and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.

Harry, who had just tossed a stone that bounced seven times, let out a sudden whoop! He turned around grinning, and the Beauxbatons boy clapped admiringly.

Cedric narrowed his eyes.

“You should go stake your claim before he’s invited to a spring wedding in Marseille,” Hermione said.

“Absolutely,” Cedric muttered, already moving.

He crossed the snowy lawn with easy purpose, the wind ruffling his scarf as he approached the lake. Harry was testing the weight of a stone in his hand, cheeks flushed from cold and excitement, completely unaware of the way the Beauxbatons boy was watching him like he was the tastiest thing in Scotland.

Without hesitation, Cedric stepped up behind Harry, wrapped both arms around his waist, and kissed his cheek.

Harry startled slightly, then relaxed into the embrace, letting out a soft laugh. “You okay?”

“Very,” Cedric murmured into his ear, smiling far too pleasantly at the other boy over Harry’s shoulder.

The Beauxbatons student blinked once. Then offered a tight smile.

And—shockingly—did not back off.

He merely picked up another stone and flung it across the lake with crisp precision.

Hermione, now making her way down to the edge of the frozen shore, arched a brow. Bold. She wedged herself between the entwined couple and French boy with just enough force to be rude.

Harry beamed at her. “You want in?”

She smiled back. “Absolutely! Help me find a good stone—I haven’t a clue what to look for.”

Hermione intentionally walked a few paces away before bending down to examine stones. Harry followed without question.

Then, under her breath, just loud enough for Harry to hear: “That French boy is flirting with you.”

Harry stared blankly at her. “What?”

“You need to make it clear you’re not interested before Cedric scalps him and buries the evidence under the Black Lake,” she warned.

He paled slightly. “Oh.”

And just like that, the next time the French boy tried to compliment Harry’s form, Harry gave him a polite but firm, “Thanks,” and took a pointed step closer to Cedric. His posture stiffened. Conversation waned. The energy shifted.

One more round of skipping—this time with Hermione claiming victory with a triumphant eight!—and the Beauxbatons boy finally took the hint.

He offered Harry a lingering look, nodded stiffly at Cedric, and strode off across the lawn without another word.

Cedric waited until he was out of sight.

Then he turned Harry toward him and started thoroughly snogging him.

It wasn’t a peck.

It wasn’t subtle, or even sweet.

Hermione made a sound somewhere between a groan and a gag. “Brilliant. I’ve gone blind. Thanks for that.”

She left and did not look back. She’d seen more than she could stomach in a lifetime.

Chapter Text

Harry

Harry had just exited the Transfiguration classroom when a hand closed around his bicep and yanked him off course.

“Oi—!” he started, but before he could get a full protest out, the door to a broom cupboard slammed shut behind him and he was falling into the shadows with a chestful of adrenaline and a lapful of Cedric Diggory.

Cedric grinned, breathless, and conjured a happy orb of warm light for them. “Hi.”

Harry blinked. “Is this your idea of a greeting now?”

“No, sorry—I just—Moody cornered me between classes.”

Harry frowned. “Are you in trouble?”

“No—well—maybe? He told me something about the egg.” Cedric looked far too pleased with himself. “He said you have to put it underwater.”

Harry stared. “Underwater?”

“Yeah.”

Harry huffed. “Let me get this straight: He told you that you have to put it underwater, and me to ‘dampen’ it.” His voice pitched upward. “Dampen it? The vague bastard clearly likes you better!”

Cedric’s mouth twitched. “I am intimidating. Maybe he didn’t want to risk upsetting me.”

“Oh, sure. That makes perfect sense,” Harry muttered.

Cedric forged on, visibly trying not to laugh. “Anyway—I think I know the perfect place. The Prefects’ Bathroom. It’s basically a small pool. We can sink the egg, listen to the clue, and figure it out tonight! And if we go after curfew no one will bother us.”

Harry’s heart gave a single, panicked thump. “You—wait. You want to—?”

Cedric tilted his head. “To use the Prefects’ Bathroom…”

“No—I mean—you—you want—” Harry choked on absolutely nothing “—bath—together?”

There was a beat of total silence.

Cedric went pink and quickly leapt up from Harry’s lap.

“Swim,” he said quickly. “Not a bath! Just. Swim. Or float. Or stand near the water and listen to the egg. While wet. Underwater.”

Harry stared.

Cedric cleared his throat, then added—far too brightly, “We’ll wear swimsuits!”

Harry made a strangled noise that might have been an agreement.

His brain was rapidly short-circuiting under the weight of a completely uninvited mental image of Cedric in swim trunks. It wasn’t helping.

At all.

“Right,” Cedric said, all business now. “Great. Ten o’clock?”

“Sure,” Harry managed, voice higher than usual.

“Brilliant.” Cedric opened the cupboard door, sunlight spilling in behind him like a spotlight. “See you tonight.”

And then he was gone.

Harry stayed where he was, staring at the shelf of cleaning supplies like they might explain how to survive the next eight hours without spontaneously combusting.

Charms had never felt longer.

Harry had spent the entire lesson pretending to concentrate on banishing charms while actually just replaying the phrase we’ll wear swimsuits on loop in his head like a cursed lullaby. His wandwork was off, his notes were illegible, and he’d nearly set his own sleeve on fire during a particularly intrusive thought about water dripping past collarbones.

When class ended, he tried to escape, but Hermione was faster.

“Harry?” she asked, falling into step beside him with clear determination. “Are you alright? You look pale. Well, pale-er.”

“I’m fine,” he lied, voice two octaves too high.

She frowned. “Did something happen?”

“Nope.”

“You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting—”

“Was it Cedric?”

Harry tripped over absolutely nothing and sent both of them crashing into a suit of armor.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she rubbed her elbow. “It was Cedric.”

Harry made a strangled noise.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing! He just—” Harry glanced around wildly, spotted a group of first-years approaching, and then veered sharply down the nearest corridor. “It’s fine!”

Hermione followed him like a shark. “Did he say something? Did he not say something?”

“He invited me to the Prefects’ Bathroom but with swimsuits so it’s fine,” Harry blurted.

Hermione’s eyes widened to an alarming degree. “There’s… a lot to process in that sentence.”

“It’s for the Tournament!” Harry babbled, spinning to face her, his entire body hot. “We have to submerge the egg in water and Cedric said that bathroom has a pool-sized tub so we can submerge the egg in water and hear the clue tonight and probably solve the clue tonight but we’ll wear swimsuits so it’s fine.”

“It sounds like everything is fine, then,” Hermione said, clearly biting back laughter.

Harry buried his face in his hands. “It’s not fine,” Harry muttered. “I’m—my brain is damp, Hermione. All my thoughts are wet.”

She made a choked sound—half-amused, half-horrified. “Gods, please consider rephrasing.”

“I don’t even own a swimsuit,” Harry continued. “Where do I get a swimsuit in the next six hours?!”

Hermione took a slow breath and put a hand on his shoulder. “Harry.”

“What?”

“Go wash your face. Drink some water. Breathe. And if you’re still too uncomfortable—don’t go. If you faint and drown in that bathroom I’m not dragging your half-dressed corpse out of it.”

Harry stared at her.

Then nodded.

“Okay,” he said faintly.

She patted his cheek once. “You’re welcome.”

After two more hours of panicking and hardly eating any dinner, Hermione reminded Harry about the second-hand clothing closet that he could summon on the seventh floor. Once Harry had found a pair of swim trunks that were reasonable and had a secure drawstring (thank Merlin), he went back to his dorm to lay down and stare at the drapery of his four-poster while sorting his thoughts.

The thing was… Cedric had panicked too.

That hadn’t registered at the time—not with the rush of blood in his ears and the full mental slideshow of Cedric Diggory in water—but now, lying alone in the quiet dormitory, Harry could replay the moment more clearly. The way Cedric had flushed. How he’d stumbled over “not a bath” like he’d been caught suggesting something scandalous. How he’d all but shouted “we’ll wear swimsuits” like it was a life-saving spell.

Cedric had been just as flustered as Harry.

And that made something in Harry’s chest loosen. It wasn’t one-sided. Cedric hadn’t smirked or teased or played it cool. He’d panicked equally.

That made it… less terrifying.

Not un-terrifying, obviously. There was still the issue of shared water. Minimal clothing. Cedric seeing him shirtless. Harry seeing Cedric shirtless. But still—at least they’d be awkward together.

Somehow, that made it a million times easier.

He sat up, staring down at the folded trunks on his bed like they might bite him.

“Right,” he whispered to himself. “Okay.”

He could do this.

It was just a clue. In a bathroom. With swimsuits.

And Cedric Diggory.

Nothing to panic about.

Obviously.

When the clock chimed half-past nine, Harry finally moved.

He dressed quickly, tugging on a clean T-shirt and jumper with the borrowed trunks—just to feel normal for as long as possible. He picked up his golden egg, opened the map, and donned his Invisibility Cloak with practiced ease.

The castle was quiet by ten. Most (rule-abiding) students had retreated to their dormitories, the post-holiday haze still hanging thick in the air. The portraits murmured sleepily as Harry crept through the corridors, lit only by moonlight and the flickering glow of distant sconces.

“Mischief managed,” he whispered, tucking the map into his pocket.

He moved fast. The Cloak rustled faintly around his ankles, and the egg grew heavier with each step. The closer he got to the fifth floor, the more his nerves built—not the sickening kind, but the kind that made his chest flutter in a too-warm, too-fast way.

He waited under the Invisibility Cloak in the fifth-floor corridor, pressed against the cool stone near the entrance to the Prefects’ Bathroom. The door had no visible handle, just a stretch of polished wood and a small brass plaque. Password-protected. Naturally.

He checked his watch. 9:57.

The corridor was empty and eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of old pipes and the distant hum of torchlight.

Then—footsteps.

Harry tensed automatically, clutching the egg tighter under his arm.

But it was Cedric.

And for once, Cedric Diggory looked… slightly less than composed.

He came into view with his own golden egg tucked under his arm. His other hand was raking through his hair like it wouldn’t behave, though it looked exactly as golden and perfectly tousled as usual to Harry. He muttered something under his breath—too low for Harry to catch—and glanced up and down the corridor with clear unease.

Harry watched, something loosening in his chest.

With a quiet breath, Harry reached up and pulled off the Cloak—

And Cedric startled so badly that he dropped his egg.

It hit the floor and burst open with a metallic crack!, letting out a shrieking wail that echoed down the hall like a banshee trapped in a kettle.

“Bloody hell!” Cedric hissed, scrambling to shut it. “What is wrong with this thing—?”

Harry, mortified, tried to help. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to—!”

Cedric snapped the egg shut with a grunt, teeth gritted, and grabbed Harry’s sleeve. “Inside. Before we wake the entire floor.”

He spat out the password and shoved open the door with his elbow, practically dragging Harry into the bathroom by the jumper.

The door slammed behind them and Cedric locked it, muttering a charm under his breath that sealed it with a faint click.

Then—for a beat—they just stood there.

Breathing hard.

Wide-eyed.

And slightly deafened from the echoing remnants of the egg’s horrific wailing.

“…Hi,” Harry said weakly.

Cedric exhaled a laugh. “Hi.”

They set the eggs down together, side by side on the edge of the bath, neither saying much. Cedric stepped away to fiddle with the jeweled taps, twisting a few until water began to rush into the enormous tub in gentle, frothing streams. Some ran clear, others faintly blue or green—one spouted what looked like enchanted foam stars. Harry watched as another tap spewed a cascade of perfect lavender bubbles that floated lazily upward without popping.

He couldn’t help it—he grinned.

Cedric noticed. “You can try to pop them, but they’ll dodge you.”

Harry stretched a hand toward one anyway, laughing when it bobbed just out of reach.

The bath was filling steadily, steam rising as the water climbed toward the rim. Harry kicked off his shoes and socks and padded over to the edge. Still in his jumper, he sat and dipped his feet into the water, sighing at the heat.

A moment later, Cedric joined him, mimicking his position on the other side of the egg pile. Their legs dangled side by side.

The silence stretched—comfortably, this time.

After a while, Harry exhaled and muttered, “Gods, I way overthought this.”

Cedric barked a laugh and nudged his shoulder. “You and me both.”

Harry smiled—wide and real this time.

When the water had risen high and the last of the bubbles had settled into a thick, frothy layer atop the surface, Cedric stood and grabbed his egg.

“Right then,” he said, cradling it carefully. “Let’s attempt Strategy Number One: drop it in and hope it stops screaming.”

He crouched beside the tub, opened the golden shell just above the surface, and let it go.

The egg slipped beneath the bubbles with a soft glug. Immediately, the ear-splitting screech that usually followed was muted to a low, echoing keen. Not pleasant exactly, but definitely more tolerable.

Harry blinked. “Well… that’s something.”

They both leaned closer. A faint, melodic hum drifted up from the depths of the water—unlike the usual noise, this one sounded structured , almost like a song just out of reach.

Harry met Cedric’s eyes and felt something swoop behind his ribs.

“So,” he said awkwardly, gesturing toward the pool, “guess we have to go under.”

Cedric nodded. “Looks like it.”

And then came the problem of the actual getting in.

Harry stood first, tugging his jumper off quickly, then hesitating before yanking his T-shirt over his head in one motion. His face was burning. He moved fast—too fast—diving into the water before he could think about anything too hard.

The heat hit him like a wall.

He surfaced with a breath and turned around—

—and immediately did not look at Cedric.

Not his collarbones.

Not his shoulders.

Definitely not the water beading along his upper chest as he slid smoothly into the tub like this was all completely normal and not a mortal threat to Harry’s life.

Hermione’s words rang out in his head: If you faint and drown in that bathroom I’m not dragging your half-dressed corpse out of it.

Harry swallowed, then instinctively reached to push his glasses up his nose.

Except… he didn’t wear glasses anymore.

So he poked himself in the eye.

Cedric noticed and smiled, hair already curling slightly in the damp air. “Forgot you’re not wearing them?”

Harry shrugged, trying to play it off. “Muscle memory.”

Cedric leaned back against the marble. “They were kind of cute. The glasses.”

Harry made a faint, helpless noise.

And promptly dunked himself under the surface.

The water wrapped around him like silk, and the sound changed instantly. Gone was the dull hum. In its place came a voice—clear and eerie, weaving a slow, lilting melody through the deep.

Come seek us where our voices sound…

Harry smiled, kicking back up to the surface.

“It works!” he cheered.

Cedric grinned and went under without a word.

They took turns, surfacing between phrases and jotting down the phrases at the edge of the tub with a Muggle pencil that Cedric had conjured. Quick drying charms kept the parchment from getting too soggy each time they resurfaced.

By the sixth round, they were both soaked, grinning, and practically bouncing where they floated in the deep end, piecing through the puzzle together:

Merpeople… A search in the Black Lake for… something important…

Harry’s skin was warm from the bath, his cheeks a little flushed from the heat and laughter. His nerves had settled. Mostly.

Until Cedric gave him a look—fond and shining—and said, “You’re good at this.”

Harry felt that swoop again, and tried not to let it show.

“Oh, well,” he muttered, “I have a good study partner.”

A splash of water hit him square in the face.

Harry sputtered. “Hey!”

Cedric grinned. “Learn to take a compliment, Potter!”

Harry flung a handful of water right back, catching Cedric in the side of the face.

“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” Cedric laughed, ducking under and sending a tidal wave straight at Harry’s head.

By the time they called a truce, they were both dripping and breathless. Cedric slicked his hair back and pushed himself up onto the marble ledge, reaching for the parchment where they’d scribbled down the song.

“I’ll duplicate it so we each have a copy,” he said, pulling his wand from where it lay on the floor. “Though honestly, only the lines I wrote down are legible.”

Harry splashed him again, with feeling.

Cedric laughed, tapping the parchment with his wand to dry it. “Deserved.”

He stood and stretched, water trailing down his back in slow rivulets as he crossed to the far side of the room. “I’ll grab us towels.”

Harry watched him walk away—broad shoulders, smooth back, water glinting on bare skin in the candlelight—and immediately dunked himself under the surface like it was a matter of survival.

He stayed under longer than necessary.

When he resurfaced, Cedric was back, one towel wrapped around his shoulders and another held out toward Harry.

Harry stared at him, blinking water out of his lashes, praying his face wasn’t visibly on fire.

“Thanks,” he croaked, dragging himself from the pool as calmly as humanly possible.

Cedric’s gaze caught on Harry for just a second too long to be casual—and his cheeks turned faintly pink.

Harry took the towel and pressed it to his face, trying to hide his grin.

He hadn’t expected that.

And he quickly realized that… he liked it. He wanted more of it.

More of Cedric looking at him like that.

Even if it was slightly terrifying.

The classroom they’d nicked for practice was warm and smelled faintly of chalk, dragonhide polish, and whatever terrifying plant Hermione had given Harry to eat in the Second Task.

Harry sat cross-legged on a table, wand resting on his knee as he watched Cedric pace in a slow circle—a perfectly conjured bubble shimmering around his head.

“Bubble’s holding,” Harry said, impressed. “Still clear. No wobbles.”

Cedric gave a thumbs-up, his voice slightly muffled inside the charm as he said, “You sound weird, but clear enough.”

Harry yawned. “Cheers.” He leaned back on his hands, watching Cedric pace. “You know, you’re taking this a bit seriously for someone with another two weeks to practice and a magically-enhanced-seaweed back-up plan.”

“Hardly.” Cedric tapped the bubble gently with his wand to ensure it held against light pressure. “I don’t want to lose points for chewing pond weeds like a goat.”

Harry grinned. “Oi—don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Apparently I’m going to grow flippers.”

Cedric made a face. “No thanks. I’d like to win with spellwork, not snack choices. Unlike some of us, I actually entered this tournament voluntarily and want to win.”

“So is this about pride, or are you just too chicken to eat slimy plants?”

Cedric scoffed with mock indignation and made a rude gesture with his hand.

Harry smirked, then added with total sincerity, “You’re going to win.”

Cedric hummed. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” Harry shrugged, tossing his wand from hand to hand. “You’re brilliant. And disgustingly good at everything.”

There was a pause.

Then Cedric rolled his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Stop saying things like that while I’m supposed to be practicing.”

To cover for the soft-glowy feeling in his chest, Harry quickly said, “Alright then, brainiac. Quiz time. What do you do if you run into a grindylow?”

“Break their grip. Revulsion Jinx.”

“Alright, that was too easy. How about… a grindylow with a toothache?”

Cedric snorted, his bubble rippling slightly. “Aim for the teeth,” he said, deadpan.

“Hmm… How about a merperson who’s very cross you interrupted their kelp braiding ceremony?”

“Apologize. Offer tribute. Possibly retreat.”

They went on like that for a while—Harry making up increasingly ridiculous scenarios (“What if the giant squid inks you?”) and Cedric answering with stubbornly serious improvisation—until, eventually, Harry flopped back and groaned. “Ughhh. This is so boring.”

“You can leave, you know,” Cedric said with an eye roll, walking another slow circle. “I need to hold this for another—” he checked his watch “—twelve minutes.”

Harry mumbled something, low and unintelligible.

Cedric paused. “What was that?”

Harry sat up, face warm but feeling determined. “I said… not yet.”

“Why not?” Cedric asked, eyebrow raised.

Harry fiddled with his wand. “Because I’m waiting until I can kiss you goodbye.”

The Bubblehead Charm wobbled slightly.

Then popped.

Harry burst into startled laughter as Cedric groaned.

“It’s official. You’re going to be the death of me,” Cedric said with a smirk, crossing the room. 

“I’m just trying to distract you like a real, malicious lake creature would,” Harry teased with feigned innocence.

Cedric kissed him—confident and unfairly quick.

Harry grinned wickedly when they pulled apart. “You’re going to have to start your hour over now.”

“Tomorrow,” Cedric disagreed, voice low. “I’d rather do something more exciting right now.”

And Cedric kissed him again.

Slower this time.

Hotter.

Harry inhaled sharply as Cedric’s thumb traced his jaw, featherlight. His skin sparked where they touched, nerves lighting up like someone had cast Lumos beneath his ribs. Cedric tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and Harry’s thoughts scattered like startled birds.

How does this keep getting better?

Every time it was more. More heat, more pressure, more dizzying awareness of how much he wanted. Not just Cedric’s lips or his hands or the low sound he made when Harry kissed him back with intent—but the way Cedric looked at him afterward, like he was everything.

Harry leaned in, chasing the kiss with something like desperation, both hands curling into Cedric’s hair to hold him in place. He felt bolder—licking and nibbling at Cedric’s lower lip like Cedric had once done to him. The sounds that his actions elicited made Harry shiver and think: Yes. More of that.

By the time they finally broke apart, Harry was flushed and breathless, his heart hammering like he’d flown full-tilt into a thunderstorm. He didn’t move, just let his forehead rest against Cedric’s, breathing in the quiet between them.

Cedric’s hands slid to Harry’s waist, anchoring him gently.

“Merlin,” Harry muttered, eyes still closed. “This is getting dangerous.”

He felt more than heard Cedric’s soft laugh. “You started it.”

Harry huffed, still catching his breath. He cracked one eye open, just enough to catch the look Cedric was giving him—fond, dazed, and like he was trying to memorize every inch of Harry’s face.

He wanted to freeze the moment. Stay there, weightless and wanted and held, just like this.

Cedric brushed their noses together and murmured sweetly, “I swear I won’t kiss you for a week after you eat that vile pond grass.”

Harry snorted and then buried his face in Cedric’s neck. “Rude.”

“Consequences of the easy route,” Cedric said, grinning. “You’ve been warned.”

Chapter Text

Hermione

They lingered outside the library in the quiet hush of curfew’s edge, the castle dim and cold around them. Theo leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, watching Hermione try to stuff her bag closed with too many books and not enough hands.

“You know,” he said, tone teasing, “you could’ve just insulted Potter yesterday like a smart person. Then you would be staying dry tomorrow.”

Hermione shot him a look. “Oh, right. Just what Harry needs—another Ron.”

“Worked well enough for Weasley. He’s warm. You’re bait.”

“I’ve played the damsel once already—it’s easy enough,” Hermione muttered. “Worst part is the freezing cold water. And the wet shoes after.”

Theo grinned, pushing off the wall. “Not the hostile Merpeople?”

“Hmm. They’re a close second.”

He leaned in and kissed her, soft and brief, murmuring against her lips, “I’ll see you lakeside, princess.”

She groaned, elbowing him lightly. “Do not start calling me that.”

Footsteps echoed up the corridor before Theo could reply. Fred and George appeared around the corner, identical expressions a little too casual to be comforting.

“McGonagall wants you, Hermione,” Fred said.

“Why?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

“Dunno… she was looking a bit grim, though,” George said. “We’re supposed to take you to her office.”

Hermione sighed and made to follow. They wound through the castle in silence uncharacteristic of the Weasley twins.

The moment she stepped inside the office, Hermione knew something was wrong.

Dumbledore looked calm, tired—exactly as she remembered. And McGonagall looked like she had swallowed a lemon.

But then there was a third person. 

Moody. 

Or, rather, Barty Crouch Junior under polyjuice.

He wasn’t supposed to be there.

And for some reason he was watching her like a man who’d just tipped the king.

“Ah, Miss Granger. Thank you for coming. Please, take a seat.”

The Headmaster’s cordial tone and calm but unreadable expression startled her out of her swirling thoughts.

She cleared her throat as she sat down, feigning ignorance as she asked, “Sir… what am I here for?”

Dumbledore smiled kindly. “Nothing to cause concern, Miss Granger. Rather, we have a favor to ask of you. As part of tomorrow’s task, the champions will be asked to retrieve someone precious to them from the depths of the lake.”

“Oh.” Hermione intentionally wrinkled her brow. “So I’m Harry’s—?”

“You’ve been chosen to serve as a hostage for him to rescue, yes,” Dumbledore confirmed gently. “It’s symbolic, of course—there’s no real danger. You’ll be placed under a secure enchanted sleep, monitored and protected, and returned safely to the surface once the task concludes.”

McGonagall made a disapproving tutting noise. “Putting students at the bottom of a lake, Albus—”

“Minerva,” Dumbledore said calmly but firmly, “I am casting the charms myself. The Merfolk have my confidence and will monitor the hostages to ensure their safety, as a secondary precaution.” He turned back to Hermione, saying in a reassuring tone, “You’ll be under the water for less than two hours, Miss Granger.”

Hermione tried to keep her expression neutral as she fought down a wave of unease. She remembered this. This had happened before. But not like this.

In her timeline, Moody-Crouch hadn’t been there.

Why was he here this time?

Moody-Crouch moved forward slowly, his electric blue eye swiveling toward her in addition to his real one. “Don’t worry,” he said gruffly, grinning in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just a few final checks before we put you under, Miss Granger. Can’t be too careful with safety, even in dreams.”

The pendant hanging around her neck—the one that Theo had gifted her—suddenly burned hot against her skin. Hermione’s pulse surged—beating at her temples as one thought solidified in her mind:

He knows.

She sat there, trying to think, to strategize. Her plan—her entire plan—had hinged on the graveyard—the resurrection. But, more importantly, on knowing when it was going to happen. If she said anything now—if she outed Barty Crouch Junior early—it could all fall apart. The graveyard wouldn’t happen the same way as it did in her timeline. She would lose the advantage of knowing exactly when to be there to intervene.

But if she stayed quiet, he might kill her.

Her throat went dry.

But Theo would’ve seen it, right? He would’ve seen something if Moody-Crouch was about to murder her. Theo would have told her and intervened, but he didn’t. That meant it would all turn out fine, didn’t it?

Unless he simply hadn’t seen it.

Or, for some reason, he couldn’t see it.

Her eyes flicked to Dumbledore.

To the man she’d lost trust in.

To the man who, in her timeline, had sent Harry to his death.

He was her only hope. She had to tell him—to reveal Barty Crouch Junior now—future knowledge and strategy be damned—

But just as she moved to speak, she felt a curse hit her like a wave of warm, honeyed silence. Her panic dropped away. The urgency in her chest dulled into something soft and drifted away.

Moody-Crouch’s voice crept into her mind. Commanding and controlling:

Stay quiet.

Say nothing.

Let Dumbledore put you under.

She blinked once, slow and empty.

And as Dumbledore raised his wand to cast the charm for enchanted sleep, his blue eyes twinkled kindly behind his half-moon spectacles.

The last thing Hermione thought, before everything went dark, was: Harry, I’m so sorry. 

She woke to a blur of murky green and black. Everything around her swirled slowly. It was all distorted, wrong. Her body felt weightless. Suspended. Cold.

Something moved in front of her.

Eyes.

Bright, panicked green eyes.

Harry.

His mouth opened—he was speaking, maybe—but only bubbles escaped, scattering into the gloom. He looked horrified. She blinked blearily, trying to understand, to remember, and then—

She breathed.

Her chest convulsed immediately. The water rushed in and panic exploded through her entire body. Her limbs jerked, her lungs seized, and the pain was instant—drowning, she was drowning. She uselessly fought against the restraints holding her in place.

Harry was suddenly casting something—his wand lit, moving with precision despite his clear panic.

An air bubble surrounded her face like a sudden, peaceful embrace and she gasped—

—then choked violently.

Her body rejected the change. She coughed, gagged, tried to suck in air and failed. The bubble popped because of her convulsive movements. Water hit her face again and she barely managed to keep her mouth shut this time.

Harry’s wand was back up. Another bubble. Another convulsion and subsequent slap of water rushing back at her face when it burst. Every bubble and ragged, half-panicked breath brought her body closer to breaking. Tears leaked from her eyes, washing away in the water like pearls. Her brain screamed no as her instincts screamed breathe.

Her vision was blurring at the edges.

A flash of silver slid past them—

A Merperson.

He cut the ropes at her ankles and wrists and grabbed her arm, pointing upward, speaking to Harry in rapid Mermish. Harry’s eyes were wild as he clutched his wand too tight, head whipping between the Merperson and Hermione, who was still thrashing uncontrollably, her lungs screaming.

The bubble burst again.

And then—

A hand on her mouth. Firm. Steady.

Something foul was shoved past her lips and she would have spit it out if the hand hadn’t stayed there, keeping her jaw shut.

She saw a new pair of worried eyes. Amber eyes distorted by a helmet-like air bubble.

Cedric?

His hold was hard and unrelenting on her jaw, but after she stopped fighting him he raised his other hand to softly cradle the side of her face and he mouthed one word over and over—slow, encouraging:

Chew.

She obeyed. Her body screamed, but she chewed.

It hit fast—like Polyjuice, like lightning in her blood. Her skin prickled, her chest convulsed one last time, and suddenly—

She breathed.

It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t right. But it wasn’t quite as painful anymore.

The cold felt different now. More bearable. Her head cleared just enough to process that she had just been force-fed Gillyweed. She could now breathe underwater.

Everything else was still wrong, though.

Her arms trembled. Her legs wouldn’t even move. Her brain felt like it had gone through a sieve. 

But she was alive, and breathing.

Someone—Harry, she thought—grabbed her under the arms and began hauling her upward. The Merperson hovered close, guiding them, fast and silent. The light above was distant, shimmering. So far. Her thoughts slipped again. She felt so tired. Her eyes closed.

Then, air.

Light and air and noise—

“Hermione!” Harry’s voice shouted, desperate and breaking. “Keep your neck in the water—you can’t breathe yet!”

She gasped in air that felt wrong—she was panicked and freezing, thrashing weakly in the arms holding her because they were pushing her back under—

“Hold her still!” someone barked—female, older, commanding.

A woman appeared above her, soaked to the skin and furious. She was mid-forties, elegant, and wild-eyed; her blonde hair was dripping in tangled ropes down her back.

“Wand,” she snapped, reaching toward Cedric. “Now.”

Cedric handed it over without hesitation.

The woman began casting immediately, her incantations sharp and precise. Hermione couldn’t follow the words, only felt the awful, churning twist as her lungs shifted, her gills sealed, and the burning in her chest amplified to something unbearable.

Harry pulled her out of the water.

The woman’s voice was gentler now. “It’s alright, sweetheart. Breathe. We’ve got you. Let’s get you warm.”

Blankets wrapped around her. Potions were tipped down her throat—burning, sour, sweet—too many to track. Her vision blacked out again and when she resurfaced her chest ached and her body trembled.

There was yelling.

Theo?

She croaked something—tried to call to him.

Everything was blurred except a flash of deep blue. Sapphire eyes suddenly close, grounding her.

“Hermione,” Theo said, voice thick with fear.

She wanted to lift her hand—to hold his face—but couldn’t. Her voice came out ragged, shredded, and low:

“He knows… Moody knows.”

Then everything went dark.

Harry

Harry sat on the edge of a cot, soaked to the bone and numb all the way through despite the Pepper-Up potion he had taken just moments ago. His ears were ringing and his fingers wouldn’t stop twitching, even as Cedric’s hands pressed around his, steady and warm.

He was dimly aware of Pomfrey moving quickly around Hermione’s cot, issuing clipped commands to the blonde woman next to her—Cedric’s mum, as it turned out—who was still drenched from being under the lake herself. They were pouring potions down Hermione’s throat like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

And maybe it was.

“Annette, check her heart,” Pomfrey muttered, running another diagnostic. “Her lungs—”

“Her pulse is climbing,” Annette Diggory said briskly, wand tip glowing pale green as it passed over Hermione’s chest. “The potions are working.”

The words didn’t register. Not really. Not over the noise in Harry’s head.

There’d been so much water.

Drowning.

Panic.

He saw Hermione’s eyes going wide, her mouth opening and opening but only taking in water. Her body bucking.

Harry couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know if he’d started crying or just never stopped.

“It’s going to be alright,” Cedric murmured in his ear. His arms wrapped around Harry and squeezed tightly, grounding him. “They’ve got her. She’s breathing now.”

But everything still felt wrong. Like none of this was real. Like the surface hadn’t actually broken. Like he’d left something down there. Like he’d failed.

And then the tent flap ripped open.

“Theo…” Cedric said in a low warning tone. 

Theo didn’t even look at him. He went straight to Harry, eyes wide and wild. “What happened down there? Why did she wake up?”

Harry flinched back, guilt punching through the fog in his mind.

“I—I don’t know—as soon as I touch her she just—she—”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen!” Theo shouted, something in his voice breaking.

“Get out!” snapped Annette Diggory, facing them now, her expression fierce. “Either shut up or get the hell out!”

Theo froze. Chest heaving.

And then—

A rasp.

Barely a whisper. But it silenced the room.

“…Theo…”

Everyone turned at once. Hermione’s eyes had cracked open, just a sliver. She looked dazed and her lips were still grey, but her gaze locked onto Theo as soon as he leaned over her.

“Hermione,” he said, voicing wavering.

Her lips moved again. Her voice was strained—her words slurred:

“He knows… Moody knows.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Then Hermione went limp again.

“She’s gone unconscious,” Pomfrey snapped, pushing Theo back with firm hands. “Annette—support her lungs again.”

The two Healers sprang into synchronized motions. Spells fired like oddly gentle fireworks, glowing gold and white and green.

Harry just gaped, dizzy with shock and turning the sentence ‘ He knows… Moody knows’ over and over in his head as though it would suddenly make sense.

And then another pair of figures entered the tent.

Dumbledore.

McGonagall.

Harry had never seen the Headmaster look like this. His face was drawn and furious, his expression carved in stone. McGonagall’s voice was sharper than he’d ever heard it.

“How did this happen? Albus— how is this possible?!”

Dumbledore didn’t answer her.

He turned instead to—of all people—Theodore Nott.

There was something knowing in his eyes. Heavy. Waiting.

Theo, pale and shaking, barely got the words out. “Alastor Moody… is not who you think he is.”

A flicker passed across Dumbledore’s face.

Then he swept out of the tent without a word.

Hermione didn’t wake again, but the spells stopped—one last soft shimmer of blue over her chest, and then Pomfrey stepped back, exhaling.

“She’s stable now,” she announced. “She just needs monitoring and rest.”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His legs felt watery.

Cedric was still beside him, a firm weight at his side.

Harry saw Theo drop into a chair across the room, head in his hands, shaking.

Then a gentle hand touched Harry’s shoulder, and he startled slightly.

“Hello, Harry,” said a voice, low and kind and matter-of-fact. “I’m Annette Diggory. I helped pull you and your friend out of the lake.”

Harry blinked up at her. She looked like Cedric, but far more commanding and elegant. Her long hair was still damp, her robes soaked, but her wand—Cedric’s wand, actually—was steady as she waved it in front of Harry’s body.

“You’re in shock,” she murmured. “Erratic heart rate. Low internal temperature. An adrenal spike that’s still tapering off.”

Harry tried to say I’m fine, but it came out in a thin croak.

Cedric’s hand squeezed his knee.

Annette straightened and gave her son a look so sharp it could’ve cut diamond. “Get a Calming Draught from Madam Pomfrey’s kit, and bring him dry clothes. I’ll handle the rest.”

Cedric didn’t argue. Just stood, gave Harry one last squeeze, and moved.

Annette turned back to Harry, conjuring a thick woolen blanket with a flick of her wand. “Wrap this around your shoulders and breathe deep—just like me, watch now—in two three four—out two three four...”

Harry did as told. The blanket helped. So did the breathing.

He didn’t notice Pomfrey until she swooped down like an angry hawk.

“Annette Diggory, what are you still doing on your feet?”

Annette waved her off with a smirk. “I had things to do, Poppy.”

“You are just as frostbitten as these children! Sit down and drink this before you fall over.”

Pomfrey shoved a Pepper-Up potion into the blonde Healer’s hands. Annette tilted it back with a grimace and steam immediately burst from her ears.

Cedric returned a moment later, a fresh set of clothes under one arm and the Calming Draught in the other. He knelt beside Harry, murmuring something soft as he handed over the vial.

Harry drank it slowly, still watching Hermione.

She hadn’t stirred again. But she looked… better now. Her color was returning. Her chest rose and fell in a quiet, consistent rhythm.

“She’ll be alright,” Cedric said gently, brushing damp hair back from Harry’s forehead.

Harry nodded once. It still didn’t feel real yet.

But it was starting to.

Cedric led him out of the main tent without a word, one hand lightly resting on Harry’s lower back.

They slipped through a canvas partition and into a smaller side room—still part of the medical setup, but quieter, more private. A small bathroom stood just off to the left.

“Here,” Cedric said softly, handing him the bundle of dry clothes. “Take your time. I’ll wait.”

Harry nodded and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

The clothes were soft, dry, and warm. They smelled faintly like cedarwood and lemon balm—like Cedric’s laundry. He pulled them on slowly, hands shaking more than he liked. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long time when he finished, eyes red-rimmed and unfamiliar.

When he stepped back out, Cedric was waiting just outside. The second Harry appeared, Cedric pulled him into a tight, steady hug.

Harry didn’t mean to cry again.

He really didn’t.

But Cedric held him, arms wrapped firm around his shoulders, and the pressure of it—the safety—unraveled something deep in his chest. The tears came fast; they were quiet but relentless. He buried his face in Cedric’s neck and let them fall.

Cedric didn’t say anything.

He just held on tighter.

After a long while, when Harry had finally calmed, Cedric pulled back just enough to look at him.

His smile was soft. “So. You met my mum.”

“Yeah,” Harry sniffed with a small smile. “She’s sort of terrifying.”

Cedric laughed under his breath. “Yeah, well—you had the bad luck of meeting her mid-medical crisis. She’s really much warmer when no one’s dying.”

Harry let out a strangled noise—half laugh, half leftover sob.

Cedric placed a kiss at his temple. “You did everything right, Harry. You saved her.”

Harry shook his head. “You saved her. I couldn’t even hold a Bubblehead Charm—”

“You held it for long enough,” Cedric interrupted, voice firm. “You were amazing, Harry—you have no idea—casting it underwater—”

Harry shook his head again, more sharply this time. “I—I panicked—I kept breaking the bubble—I couldn’t think fast enough—and she almost died—”

Cedric cupped Harry’s face, forcing him to meet his amber gaze.

“Harry. Listen to me. You did not fail her.”

Harry felt his lower lip start to twitch and bit down on it.

“Harry,” Cedric said, even firmer now, his grip gentle but unyielding. “Stop. Just stop. You can’t blame yourself for someone else’s attempt to murder your friend.”

Harry flinched at the word murder.

But Cedric didn’t back off. “You’re brave and brilliant and you got her to Pomfrey alive. She’s going to be okay and that’s all that matters now.

Harry pressed his face into the skin of Cedric’s neck again, breathing shallow and uneven. After a beat, he nodded and whispered, “Okay.” 

They stood like that for a moment longer, held together in the quiet. Then Harry pulled back and asked, voice low, “What did you mean by ‘murder?’”

Cedric ran a hand through his hair, eyes sharp. “Just a suspicion. The way Professor Dumbledore marched off after Theo said Moody isn’t who we thought.”

Harry swallowed. 

“I think… I think that wasn’t just some accident down there. She woke up too soon.”

The air briefly caught in Harry’s chest. “You think he tampered with the sleeping spell?”

Cedric nodded slowly. “My mum didn’t wake up until she surfaced—you said that Hermione woke up as soon as you touched her.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

A beat passed.

“Let’s go back. My mum still has my wand,” Cedric murmured, kissing Harry’s temple again.

They slipped quietly back through the canvas partition. The larger tent had calmed into something hushed and peaceful. Hermione still laid under layers of blankets, but her face was no longer ashen. Her breathing was slow and steady.

Annette Diggory sat nearby, now dry and brushing the pond weeds from her long, golden hair. When she saw them enter, she stood and crossed the room with a smile.

“Mr. Potter,” she said warmly, offering her hand with a gentle nod. “Or may I call you Harry?”

Harry blinked. “Er—Harry’s fine.”

“Oh good.” Her eyes darted briefly to Cedric. “Because I feel like I already know you.”

Cedric made a faint, embarrassed sound. “Mum—”

“Oh, hush. You write about him in every letter, Cedric.” She turned back to Harry, eyes twinkling just a little. “It’s very nice to finally meet you. Though I’ll admit, I imagined less mortal peril during the introduction.”

Harry flushed. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her expression softened. “I hope you realize just how extraordinary you were today. Truly. Performing under pressure like that—not just surviving, but protecting others—that takes more than talent. It takes heart.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Cedric nudged him gently in the ribs.

“Just say thank you,” Cedric muttered under his breath.

“Thank you,” Harry mumbled, cheeks hot.

Annette reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Now go get warm. Rest. I have a few things to discuss with your boyfriend before he forgets I exist and disappears with you again.”

Cedric groaned. “Mum—please—”

She arched her brow. “You’re not denying it.”

But Harry was already retreating, face burning and heart inexplicably lighter.

He wandered over to where Theo sat slumped beside Hermione’s cot, head bowed, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Harry lowered himself into the chair beside him.

They sat in silence for a long moment, watching the slow, even rise and fall of Hermione’s chest.

Theo didn’t look at him, but his voice was rough when he said, “I’m sorry. For yelling at you earlier.”

Harry shrugged. “Don’t be. You were scared.”

Theo swallowed hard. “Yeah. I was.”

Harry glanced at him, then back to Hermione. “Me too.”

Theo gave a short, quiet exhale—almost a laugh, but not quite. They sat there for another minute, words unspoken between them.

Harry wanted to ask about Moody. About what Theo had Seen. About what was going to happen next.

But instead, he stayed quiet.

He reached for the edge of Hermione’s blanket and smoothed it gently.

And then the two of them just… watched her breathe.

And breathe.

And breathe.

Chapter Text

Harry

After a long day of waiting—pacing, sitting, pacing again—Harry was fraying at the edges.

Hermione had been moved to the Hospital Wing in the afternoon, still unconscious. Pomfrey insisted she was recovering steadily, but she still hadn’t woken up. 

Theo had barely spoken a word. Cedric had tried twice to get him to eat something, but Theo resolutely ignored him.

Harry couldn’t sit still most of the time. He only paused when Cedric intervened—wrapping him in an embrace, whispering a reassurance in his ear.

The odd trio loitered around the Hospital Wing through the evening, as though proximity would make something happen. (It didn’t.)

But then a quiet note arrived—slipped into Theo’s hand by a silent, wide-eyed Ravenclaw first year—and told them to come to the Headmaster’s office at once.

When they arrived at Dumbledore's office, the fire was burning low and the sky outside was steadily darkening. Fawkes watched them silently from his perch.

Theo slouched in one of the high-backed chairs, arms folded. Cedric sat in another, his shoulders squared and hands clasped before him. Harry paced behind Cedric, too keyed up to stop moving.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his face calm but unreadable. His eyes flicked to Theo first.

“Mr. Nott,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “I expect you to fill in the gaps where you can.”

Theo didn’t speak at first. He just met Dumbledore’s gaze for one long, bristling moment. Then, finally, he exhaled and gave a shallow nod. “I’ll try.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “Very well. First—I must inform you all that the imposter posing as Alastor Moody has escaped.”

Harry stopped pacing.

Cedric inhaled sharply.

Dumbledore turned his gaze to Theo, who tensed but did not look away.

“We have not yet determined their true identity,” Dumbledore said mildly. “Perhaps you can help with that, Mr. Nott?”

Theo’s jaw twitched. “His name is Barty Crouch Junior.”

Harry blinked. “Wait—Crouch, as in the Ministry judge? That Crouch?”

“Yes,” Theo said simply. 

Dumbledore watched Theo carefully, saying as though in question, “Mr. Crouch’s son is believed to have died in Azkaban over a decade ago.”

“Well, he didn’t,” Theo muttered.

Dumbledore gave the faintest nod, his face unreadable. “And the real Alastor Moody?” he asked calmly.

Theo looked pained. “I don’t know where he’s being kept.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Nott, we will find him,” Dumbledore said gently. 

Harry was still trying to catch up. “So this Crouch Junior was the one teaching us Defense this whole year?”

Theo didn’t respond.

Dumbledore did. “It would seem so.” He folded his hands. “I suspect it was also he who placed your name in the Goblet, Harry.”

Theo gave a single, slow nod.

Harry froze.

“You knew?” he demanded, voice rising. “You knew that he did it?!”

Theo finally looked at him, eyes icy and tired. “Yes.”

Harry’s hands curled into fists. “And you didn’t tell anyone? You let me compete in this bloody Tournament—!”

“I See things,” Theo snapped, “I don’t control them. And sometimes what I See doesn’t even happen, and sometimes it does. And even if I tried to change every little thing I didn’t like I would run the risk of breaking ten other things in the process. So if I didn’t intervene, Potter, it’s because I had a damn good reason not to.”

“You’re unbelievable—”

“And you’re acting like a child pointing fingers at the wrong people!”

“Enough,” Dumbledore said, quiet but cutting. “Am I right to conclude, Mr. Nott, that something critical hinges on Harry being in the Tournament?”

Theo didn’t answer, but his mouth tightened. His silence said more than words.

Dumbledore’s eyes looked to Cedric briefly before adding, “And Mr. Diggory is somehow tied into that event as well?”

Cedric—who up until that point had stayed still and silent—turned sharply to Theo. “Is that true?”

Theo stayed frozen.

He didn’t blink.

He didn’t speak.

Harry’s voice broke. “Answer the question, Theo!”

But Theo wouldn’t even look at him.

The air pulsed with tension.

Dumbledore raised both hands, palms out. “I suggest we continue this conversation once Miss Granger has recovered.”

Theo’s gaze finally lifted. “Yes,” he said softly. “That would be best.”

Dumbledore studied him for a moment, and whatever passed between them seemed to appease the Headmaster.

Harry didn’t understand it. And he hated that he didn’t.

They were dismissed shortly after, and the three boys filed out of the office into the quiet corridor.

The stone gargoyle had barely shifted back into place before Harry rounded on Theo.

“You think you’re protecting us, but you’re just playing god with our lives,” he hissed. “Hermione almost died, and you knew. You knew things were wrong—why didn’t you say anything?”

Theo’s face darkened. “You think I knew? You think I had a vision of her nearly drowning and then just stood back to do nothing?” His voice cracked. “Fuck you, Potter. I would’ve boiled the bloody lake dry before letting that happen.”

Harry faltered. “But—”

“I’m not bloody omniscient!”

That broke the air between them.

Cedric stepped forward, slipping between them with practiced calm, one hand pressing lightly against Harry’s chest.

“Enough,” he said quietly, but firmly. “Not here. Not now.”

Harry stood frozen for a beat, trembling with leftover adrenaline. But he didn’t resist as Cedric gently steered him down the corridor.

Theo didn’t follow.

Cedric took Harry’s hand without a word and led him, their footsteps quiet against the stone. Harry walked obediently—jaw tight, pulse still pounding in his ears.

He barely noticed where they were going.

Anger still prickled under his skin—hot, directionless. Every breath felt like it caught on something sharp. Theo’s words echoed over and over in his mind, tangled with Hermione’s rasped warning and Dumbledore’s too-calm voice and too-knowing comments.

It wasn’t until they reached a familiar corridor that Harry blinked in confusion.

Were they going to the kitchens?

Just as he expected Cedric to turn toward the painting of fruit that led into the kitchens, he instead tapped a rhythmic pattern on one of the low barrels nestled into the stone wall. The lid popped open.

“What—?” Harry started to ask, but Cedric pulled him through the small opening before he could finish.

The Hufflepuff common room was somewhat different from how Harry remembered it from the party; it was still warm and low-ceilinged, with fires burning low in the hearths, but it smelled more like chamomile than butterbeer this time. It was cozy and quiet. Empty.

Cedric didn’t stop.

He led Harry past the squat armchairs and patchwork throws, past a tapestry of wildflowers in bloom, to a narrow staircase tucked in the corner. It spiraled upward.

“Er… Cedric—” Harry began, his voice uncertain.

“Shh,” Cedric murmured, squeezing his hand.

They climbed two turns of the stairs before entering a round, low-ceilinged dorm. The sound of light snoring filtered through the room, and four of the five beds had their curtains drawn shut. Cedric removed Harry’s cloak and then his own, and Harry followed his lead, kicking off his shoes near the entryway.

Cedric led Harry to the last bed on the right.

He sat Harry down gently before pulling the curtains closed and casting a flurry of quiet charms—muffling spells, privacy wards, and one that shimmered over the inside of the fabric like a soft aurora.

Then he turned and sat opposite Harry, setting aside his wand and taking Harry’s hands gently into his own.

Harry flushed—because he was in Cedric’s bed—but Cedric didn’t make a move to kiss him. He just studied him with steady eyes and let the silence settle.

“You okay?” Cedric asked softly.

Harry gave a hollow laugh. “Not even slightly.”

Cedric nodded once. “Good. Me neither.”

That got the tiniest twitch of a smile out of Harry.

They sat for a long moment in silence.

Finally, Harry murmured, “Thank you—for today. For what you did for Hermione with the Gillyweed.”

Cedric gave him a crooked smile. “If we’re passing out trophies, I think you qualify for hero status as well.”

“Oh, sure,” Harry said dryly, “says the one who got full marks for their heroism.”

Cedric groaned softly.

“‘Exemplary use of spellwork, decisive action under pressure, and moral fiber befitting a Champion,’” Harry recited in a terrible impression of Bagman. “They gave you bonus points for helping save a hostage who wasn’t yours—” Harry snickered “—they literally gave you hero points!”

Cedric dropped his forehead to Harry’s shoulder with a muffled groan.

Harry grinned. “You’ve got moral fiber befitting a Champion.”

“You’re never going to let me live that down.”

“Not a chance.”

Cedric laughed quietly, and the sound did something soft to Harry’s ribs.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time.

Just tired.

Eventually, Cedric leaned back and shifted to lie down, tugging gently at Harry’s hand. “Come on. We need to sleep.”

Harry hesitated for only a second before lying down beside him, careful not to bump knees or intrude on Cedric’s space—but then Cedric looped an arm over his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world and Harry stopped thinking at all.

They lay there, side by side, listening to the hush of the castle.

The warmth pressed against his side, the gentle rhythm of Cedric’s breathing, the scent of fresh sheets and cedarwood—it all worked like a soft charm.

He was already drifting, eyelids heavy, when Cedric’s voice hummed beside him.

“Oh, by the way,” he murmured, “I may have told my mum that I’d bring you home for Easter.”

Harry’s eyes blinked open sluggishly. “…What?”

Cedric chuckled. “She insisted.”

Harry yawned. “Fine. But only if there aren’t any more medical emergencies. She was bloody terrifying today.”

“Deal,” Cedric said softly, suddenly pressing a kiss to the tip of Harry’s nose. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Harry smiled, eyes already slipping closed again.

Hermione

Hermione woke up with no pain. Just a vague soreness in her limbs, like she’d run too far on too little sleep. Her lungs felt… fine. Strange, considering she remembered them seizing in her chest like they were trying to turn inside out. But now there was no fire, no ache. Only the dull, steady thrum of exhaustion.

She blinked slowly, adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through the curtains.

Theo was there.

He was asleep in an uncomfortable-looking chair beside her bed, slumped awkwardly with his arms crossed and his legs half-tangled in a blanket that looked to be poorly transfigured from a leaf. His dark lashes stood out against pale cheeks, his pink lips were parted just slightly, and a lock of his dark, wavy hair had fallen across his forehead.

Her chest twisted—guilt and aching fondness curling together.

He looked so peaceful.

Like he hadn’t spent the last however many hours scared out of his mind. 

She didn’t dare move yet. Just watched him. Let herself breathe. Tried to gather up the last pieces of her scrambled memory.

Had she told him?

Yes—she’d told him that Moody knew. 

But did they act on it? Did they capture him?

Before she could spiral into her worried thoughts, the doors to the Hospital Wing opened.

Ah. Of course.

Albus Dumbledore swept inside with all the measured grace of someone who absolutely knew he was walking into someone else’s quiet recovery moment and didn’t care.

He had come for answers. For a grandfatherly interrogation of one of his unruly chess pieces.

Although, Hermione could admit that nearly being murdered was a reasonable moment to throw in the towel on her plan to keep Dumbledore at arm’s length.

Maybe it was finally time to collaborate.

Even if she still hated him—deeply and with unwavering conviction—for the way he’d martyred Harry in the original timeline. 

Yeah. That hatred was never going away.

Beside her, Theo stirred.

He blinked awake blearily, eyes unfocused for a long moment. Hermione wondered if waking from his dreams was always like that—like stepping out of too many overlapping worlds at once.

Then his eyes landed on her.

And his entire face shifted.

His shoulders uncoiled, his mouth parted in quiet relief, and the way his hand lifted to touch her cheek made her heart ache.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, stroking gently. “How are you feeling?”

Her cheeks flushed under his touch.

“I’m alright,” she said softly. “I feel surprisingly normal, actually. Just… tired.”

“That is excellent news,” came Dumbledore’s voice from a few feet away, calm and knowing. “Fatigue is to be expected. I believe you will be fully recovered after two more days of rest, Miss Granger.”

Theo straightened at that, turning to see the Headmaster properly—but didn’t bother to stand.

Before Dumbledore could say more, Theo spoke.

“You’ll find the real Alastor Moody inside an enchanted trunk in his office,” he said flatly. “He’s alive. He’ll need medical attention.”

Dumbledore didn’t respond.

He merely regarded Theo in that maddeningly unreadable way—like he was counting up facts behind his half-moon spectacles. Then he nodded once, spun on his heel, and walked out without another word.

Theo let out a breath and leaned in, brushing his lips softly against Hermione’s.

“That should buy us ten minutes,” he murmured, “before he starts the real interrogation.”

Hermione reached for his hand. “Tell me what happened.”

So he did.

He explained how she had very nearly died. How he had told Dumbledore to go after Moody-Crouch in not so many words. How Moody-Crouch had gotten away. How she’d been unconscious since. 

He explained the meeting in Dumbledore’s office. What he had confirmed to the others present, what he had withheld. He explained Harry’s fury. Cedric’s question. The way Dumbledore had known about his ability without ever actually asking about it.

Hermione listened, jaw tightening as he described Harry yelling at him, and her guilt curled like hot acid in her stomach.

When he finished, she stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

“We’ll have to tell Dumbledore more than we tell Harry and Cedric,” she said finally.

Theo nodded, resigned. “We don’t have a choice anymore. Crouch Junior escaping changes everything.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around his. “I hate the idea of telling Dumbledore more than him.”

“I know.”

“Harry’s already going to be so angry when he finds out that I kept things from him—this won’t make things any easier.”

“I know.”

She exhaled slowly. “But he’ll be alive.”

Theo brought her hand to his lips. “Then it’s worth it.”

She nodded with a sigh. 

The minutes passed quietly as Hermione sorted her thoughts. She thought through her catalogue of future knowledge and what Dumbledore actually needed to know now so that they could ensure the graveyard didn’t end in disaster.

Theo sat beside her patiently, his thumb drawing soothing circles on her knuckles. At one point he leaned in to rest his forehead on her shoulder and warmth spread through her chest. She didn’t have the words to describe it, but she felt a deep sense of rightness at having him there beside her.

The door to the Hospital Wing opened again.

Hermione looked up as Dumbledore entered once more, this time with the floating wreckage of a man in tow.

The real Alastor Moody.

He looked awful—gaunt and pale, bleeding in places he had been bound, and his eye socket looking sunken and strange without his magical eye. He was barely conscious, which was likely a blessing.

Madame Pomfrey wandered in from her office. “Sweet Merlin—Alastor—”

Dumbledore guided the floating form toward an empty bed far from Hermione as Pomfrey rushed forward, already waving her wand and muttering diagnostics at a rapid pace. She only paused when she noticed Hermione awake and watching with wide eyes from across the room.

“Oh!” she barked, affronted. “And no one thought to tell me she was awake? Really! This is a hospital, not a common room—”

“She will be fine, Poppy,” Dumbledore said gently. “Please—see to Alastor first.”

Pomfrey huffed but turned back to Moody with renewed focus, conjuring a fresh set of clothing for him with a wave of her wand.

Dumbledore returned, conjuring a squashy purple armchair with a flick of his wand and settling into it beside Hermione’s bed. His gaze found hers at once—and held.

His expression wasn’t warm.

Nor was it cold.

It was merely focused, calm, and expectant.

Privacy charms shimmered briefly through the air as he waved his wand again. Then he folded his hands in his lap.

“Miss Granger,” he began.

“If we’re doing this,” Hermione said flatly, “you’ll call me Hermione. And I’ll call you Albus.”

A pause. Then, “Very well, Hermione.”

He inclined his head, and the weight of the gesture landed heavier than expected.

“Hermione,” he said again, carefully, “I think it is time that you told me what happened in your timeline with Barty Crouch Junior.”

She flinched—then scolded herself for having the most atrocious poker face in the world.

Of course.

Of course Albus bloody Dumbledore already knew.

He always knew. Somehow.

She cleared her throat and spoke as though unfazed. “In my timeline, Barty Crouch Junior wasn’t revealed until after the Third Task. He placed Harry’s name in the Goblet as part of a larger plan—one to have him reach the Triwizard Cup, touch it, and be portkeyed away.”

Her voice remained steady as she watched the Headmaster closely. “He was using the Tournament as a means to deliver Harry into Voldemort’s hands.”

Dumbledore’s fingers tightened slightly. “And how was this portkey arranged?”

Hermione’s eyes sharpened. “The destination for the cup’s portkey was modified just before it was placed in the maze. But more importantly—the maze wasn’t protected by the usual wards. You’ll adapt the Quidditch pitch for the Third Task, yes? You’ll remove the typical portkey wards that protect Hogwarts so that the winner can be extracted from the maze more quickly?”

He went pale, then nodded once. “Yes. That was the plan.”

“It will work in Voldemort’s favor,” Hermione said quietly. “Again.”

Dumbledore leaned back slightly, silent for a beat.

“And I assume,” he said slowly, “that Harry’s abduction is critical to the eventual downfall of Lord Voldemort.”

Hermione looked down at her blanket-covered knees. “Yes.” She swallowed. “He needs Harry’s blood—taken forcibly. It’s part of a potion ritual designed to restore him to a body. Which he needs to have for us to then defeat him.”

Her voice flattened with quiet disdain.

“Unless you’d prefer to deal with him as a disembodied wraith for the rest of eternity, possessing naive witches and wizards to wreak havoc as the mood strikes.”

Dumbledore exhaled, then said softly, “We are in agreement that Voldemort must return to his body—so that he may die properly.”

He paused.

“And Cedric Diggory?”

Hermione closed her eyes. “In my timeline, he touched the cup with Harry. He was portkeyed away and struck with a Killing Curse cast by Wormtail before he or Harry even knew they were in danger.”

Dumbledore’s head dropped.

Actually dropped.

The weight of it—a man carrying a world of grief—startled Hermione more than she’d like to admit.

For a moment, her instincts faltered. She wanted to feel sorry for him. To believe in the man that she had once seen him as—the one who taught children to embrace knowledge and chase justice.

But then she thought of Harry. Of a boy with a lightning scar being raised for slaughter.

And she crushed the feeling into dust.

Dumbledore raised his head again slowly. “And Harry?”

She nodded. “He survived the abduction in my timeline, escaping thanks to his wand—a brother of Voldemort’s—connecting and forcing Priori Incantatem. It provided a distraction.”

A glint lit in Dumbledore’s eyes. Recognition. A final puzzle piece snapping into place.

“Ah,” he said softly. “Of course.”

He looked at her, and there was something else in his gaze now. 

Certainty.

“I assume,” he said, “that you have developed an alternative escape plan, given the circumstances surrounding Harry and the Elder Wand.”

Hermione’s throat went dry.

He knew.

But of course he already knew—he knew bloody everything. The omniscient asshole.

She looked to Theo.

Who sighed, clearly reading her panic and frustration, and offered a dry, tired shrug.

“I’ve seen dozens of variations,” he said. “Of the… abduction.” He paused before the final word, as though censoring himself before he could say graveyard—just as Hermione had. “There are shifting variables,” Theo continued. “Too many to plan against entirely. So we’re preparing… contingencies.”

Hermione picked it up from there. “The goal was to extract Cedric immediately. Harry would need to be extracted at a specific moment—after the blood is taken for the ritual, but before the duel.”

Dumbledore studied her for a long moment.

“A fine line to walk,” he said at last. 

But there was no judgment in it. Just grim agreement.

He steepled his fingers. “And now, without Barty Crouch Junior in play to redirect the cup—”

“We don’t know exactly how or when they’ll strike,” Hermione finished. “Which puts Harry at much higher risk.”

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “That is a conundrum.”

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. Yes—a conundrum, indeed.

Dumbledore tapped his fingers once against the arm of his conjured chair, then laced them together again.

“If they were not planning to abduct Harry until June 24th,” he said, “then it stands to reason that the resurrection potion will be on a brewing schedule aligned with that end date. Thus, the simplest path forward for Crouch Junior—even now—is to find a way to enact the logistics of the original abduction plan, despite his cover being blown.”

Hermione blinked. “So… you think he’ll still try to use the cup in the final task?”

“I believe that he will if he can still garner access to it, yes. And I have an idea,” Dumbledore said mildly. “The Third Task was to be closed to the public—at my insistence.”

He looked up, eyes steady.

“If I change my stance—if I allow outside observers to enter the grounds—it will open more than one avenue for Crouch Junior to slip in… and resume his plot as he intended.”

Hermione exchanged a quick glance with Theo. Her breath hitched with the first flicker of real hope.

“That could work,” she said, sitting up straighter. “If we make it the most appealing path…”

Her thoughts kicked into high gear. “We’ll need contingency plans, nonetheless. There’s always a chance that he will enact the abduction differently. We need to create emergency portkeys for everyone—especially Harry. Although explaining that without him him realizing something is going to happen will be tricky—”

Theo cleared his throat.

She stopped, looking over to see him raise his brows and tilt his head toward Dumbledore, who was wearing a faintly amused expression.

Hermione scowled at him.

Dumbledore inclined his head, his smile faltering. “And is there anything else,” he asked lightly, “that you feel we should discuss, Hermione?”

The use of her name was pointed. Too pointed.

She narrowed her eyes. “Just ask it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Whatever it is you’re circling around. Ask it plainly. I don’t want to play games.”

Dumbledore tilted his head, and in the pale light of the rising sun, he suddenly looked older. “In the larger picture,” he said gently, “Harry successfully collected the Hallows in your timeline… but Voldemort still won. That’s why you’re here. Is it not?”

Hermione’s breath stuttered as her fury began to burn again, low and bitter.

“He didn’t win,” she said sharply.

Dumbledore sat quietly, waiting.

“Yes, Harry collected the Hallows. Yes, he reset the timeline. But no—Voldemort didn’t win.”

Her voice began to rise. “He was about to die. He was cornered. Dozens of us had already fallen to make that moment possible.”

She clenched her fists, trembling. “No one won, Albus.”

Dumbledore exhaled. “I see.”

“Do you?” Hermione’s voice cracked. “Do you see what playing chessmaster with everyone’s lives led to?”

“Hermione, don’t—” Theo murmured, but she ignored him.

She sat fully upright in the bed, glaring at the man seated beside her, heat rising in her face.

“You sent him to die!” she shouted, a sob catching in her throat suddenly. “You sent Harry to die and he did!”

Dumbledore flinched. His eyes were hollow as he whispered, “But he had the Hallows.”

Hermione let out a bitter, almost deranged laugh.

“Oh, he had them. Your plan worked perfectly, didn’t it?” Her voice was shaking now. “Except for the part where you didn’t understand Harry at all.”

She broke off, eyes burning. Then said, her voice pained:

“He had nothing left to live for. You were dead. Sirius was dead. Dozens of his schoolmates were dead. I was dead.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes.

A sheen of something—guilt, maybe—swept over his face.

And for one brief, awful second, she felt sorry for him.

She turned away before it could root in.

“You had your turn as the chessmaster,” she said coldly. “You don’t get to play again. Don’t ask me to hand you all my knowledge so you can line up your pieces and try a new opening. I won’t.”

Dumbledore was silent for a long time. When he spoke, his tone was somber. “You have made one incorrect assumption, Hermione,” he murmured.

Her jaw clenched, but she met his blue eyes with her own.

“You assume that I want to be the one holding the board—that I ever did.”

Hermione stared at him.

And to her horror… she believed him.

She looked away.

Dumbledore rose. “I expect,” he said quietly, “that you’ll do a much better job than I did. And you’ll have my support along the way. Whenever you ask for it.”

He vanished the armchair with a flick of his wand and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Hermione said, before he could remove the privacy wards.

She didn’t look at him.

“I’ve been keeping a list,” she said through gritted teeth. “Things we can deal with early. To get ahead.”

A beat passed. 

“Go on.”

“The prophecy,” she said, voice sharp. “In the Department of Mysteries. Use your Ministry connections to get Harry inside before Voldemort regains his body. Let Harry hear it. Let him destroy it. It’ll save a year’s worth of miscommunication, trauma, and a corridor full of blood.”

Dumbledore studied her again.

Then he nodded once.

“Understood.”

And, without another word, he lifted the privacy wards and swept out of the Hospital Wing.

Chapter Text

Harry 

Harry blinked awake slowly, squinting at a patch of soft sunlight that was filtering through the hangings of his four-poster and shining gold on—oh. Oh right.

Not his bed.

And not his dorm.

And not a random patch of golden sunlight.

Facing him was Cedric, his warm body was curled slightly, his breathing steady and even.

Harry’s heart fluttered shamelessly.

Cedric was facing him, still asleep, his face peaceful in the morning light. His eyelashes were even lighter than Harry had realized—pure white at the tips. His hair, rumpled from sleep, still somehow managed to look silky and purposefully tousled. And his lips—

Harry swallowed.

He had absolutely no desire to move.

Then Cedric spoke, voice low and dry: “Watching me while I sleep? Bit creepy of you.”

Harry squeaked.

Gods. A very real and undeniably embarrassing squeak had just escaped him. He slapped both hands over his face in mortification. “I wasn’t—!”

Cedric cracked one eye open, grinning. “You were. I caught you red-handed.”

Harry made a strangled noise behind his palms.

Cedric chuckled, pried Harry’s hands gently away from his face, and leaned in to press a kiss to one burning cheek, then the other. Then—because apparently Harry still wasn’t burning hot enough—he kissed the tip of his nose.

“Good morning,” Cedric murmured smugly.

“You’re mean,” Harry huffed, rolling away and burying his face in the pillow.

Behind him, Cedric wrapped an arm around his waist and tugged him closer. “It’s not mean,” he said, “if it’s teasing done lovingly.”

Harry momentarily forgot how to breathe.

They lay like that for a blissful few seconds until the background hum of voices filtered in. Cedric’s dormmates—talking, yawning, and occasionally snorting with laughter. 

Harry froze.

Then turned around so quickly he accidentally elbowed Cedric in the ribs.

“Oof— Merlin, Harry—”

“What’s your plan?” Harry whisper-hissed. “How am I supposed to get out of here unseen?”

Cedric, infuriatingly unbothered, smiled fondly. “My plan was to walk you out and trust my dormmates to mind their own business.”

Harry gaped at him, completely frozen in shock.

Cedric leaned in with a crooked grin and tapped Harry on the nose. “Oh no. Did I break you?”

Harry flopped onto his back and groaned, covering his face with both hands again. “I’m never going to live this down. How did you talk me into sleeping here—I should’ve known this would happen—”

Cedric slid a little closer, chin notched over Harry’s shoulder, his arm draped across Harry’s stomach. “They’re good blokes,” he murmured. “There’s sort of an… unspoken agreement. No one talks about what happens behind the bed curtains.”

“Oh,” Harry said, his gut twisting slightly. “So this has… happened before?”

Cedric gave him an unimpressed look that Harry read as: Are you an idiot?

Harry flushed, regretting the question.

“This is a first for me,” Cedric said plainly. “But the others—yeah, they’ve snuck people in. I’ve never said anything about it. They’ll do the same for me.”

The image of himself crossing a room of sixth year boys that he didn’t know, all of them well-aware that he spent the night in Cedric’s bed, sharpened in Harry’s mind. He groaned pitifully.

Cedric stretched and sat up, starting to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

“No!” Harry grabbed the back of his collar and yanked him back down, wide-eyed. “You can’t make me walk past them—please, Cedric. Can’t we just stay here until they leave?”

Cedric paused. Studied him. Some of the amusement faded from his face, replaced by something gentler.

“…I could try a Disillusionment Charm,” he offered. “But I’m not exactly brilliant at them.”

Harry groaned into the pillow. “I really wish I had my Invisibility Cloak right now.”

And then—

Something cool and silken brushed across his hand.

Harry sat up sharply, eyeing the silver-grey shimmer that had fallen into his lap—his dad’s cloak.

Cedric gaped. “Did—did you just conjure that?” he whispered. “Wandlessly?”

Harry looked just as stunned. “I—I don’t know? I don’t even know how to conjure things. I was just wishing that I had it with me…”

Cedric reached out and touched the edge of the cloak, reverent.

“That’s what conjuration is,” he said slowly. “It’s… it’s like instant summoning. Like Apparating an object directly to you. But wandlessly? Merlin—”

Harry cringed. “So that’s… not a thing people do?”

Cedric let out a quiet snort. “No, Harry. That is not a thing people do.”

Harry looked down at the cloak. “Oh.”

He stared at it for a moment, the shimmering fabric shifting like water against his skin. He ran his fingers over the edge, still trying to understand how it had just… appeared.

Cedric’s eyes hadn’t left him. “Remind me to have a full-blown existential crisis about your magical abilities later,” he muttered.

Harry snorted softly and slipped the cloak on—his body slowly disappearing from sight.

“Alright. I’m going.”

Cedric raised an eyebrow. “You’re not wearing shoes.”

“I know,” Harry hissed. He crawled to the edge of the bed and, careful not to make noise, padded silently across the dormitory carpet. Cedric’s boots were near the foot of his trunk, but Harry’s own scuffed trainers were tucked haphazardly beside the door, along with his cloak. He crouched to grab them just as one of Cedric’s dormmates emerged from the curtained bed nearest the fireplace, yawning and dragging a jumper over his head.

“Morning Cedric,” the boy said, his voice still sleep-rough. 

Harry froze, stuffing his cloak and shoes awkwardly under the Invisibility Cloak.

Cedric, a few steps behind, turned to the boy. “Morning Travis.”

“Meant to say last night,” the dormmate—Travis—continued. “You were really impressive during the task—made all us Hufflepuffs proud.”

Cedric shrugged one shoulder. “Just doing what anyone would’ve done.”

Travis snorted. “Sure. If ‘anyone’ could cast NEWT-level charms under pressure and rescue a drowning girl without blinking.”

Harry fought the urge to laugh, agreeing heartily with Travis’ assessment.

Cedric rubbed the back of his neck. “I had help.”

“I suppose,” the boy said, shrugging. “Wasn’t sure what you saw in Potter at first—but I think I get it now.”

Cedric hesitated.

Travis grinned. “He’s talented. And bloody fit. Not a bad ally or boyfriend to have.”

Harry’s face burned under the Invisibility Cloak.

Cedric mumbled something that sounded like “Merlin, shut up,” but the warmth in his voice betrayed him. He started backing away, promptly bumping into Harry—who barely managed to stifle a yelp.

Cedric’s eyes widened, then softened. He pivoted and mumbled a goodbye to his dormmate, who raised a brow in confusion but said nothing.

They fled down the spiral staircase together, Harry matching Cedric’s pace silently. The common room was mostly empty at this hour, and the soft glow of enchanted portholes made it feel oddly cozy.

The moment they stepped out into the corridor beyond the barrel door, Harry yanked back his hood and breathed with relief.

Cedric looked over and startled slightly. “Gods. That looks so strange.”

Harry rolled his eyes and began tugging on his shoes.

They walked a few steps in silence, the corridor blessedly empty this early. Then Cedric asked in a quieter, more serious tone, “Do you want to go see Hermione?”

Harry’s chest seized. The happy flush from moments ago vanished like fog burned away by sunlight.

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. I—yeah. Please.”

His appetite for breakfast had completely vanished.

Cedric just reached for his hand and laced their fingers together.

The walk across the castle was quiet, but companionable. Cedric didn’t say much, and Harry was grateful. His thoughts were all tangled; there was an odd, lingering heat in his chest that hadn’t gone away since he awoke beside Cedric, and a cold thread of anxiety twisting tighter the closer they got to the Hospital Wing.

They reached the familiar corridor, and Cedric gently pushed the door open for them both.

Hermione was propped up on a pile of pillows, hair tied in a loose braid, a book half-open in her lap. Theo was curled in a chair beside her looking utterly rumpled—crushed collar, sleep-flattened hair, and a mildly murderous expression as he squinted at the morning light.

As soon as she spotted them, Hermione straightened.

“Oh good!” she said brightly. “Now there are other people to hover over me, so you—” she poked Theo’s shoulder, “—can go and eat an actual meal.”

Theo frowned at her but didn’t argue. He turned with a sigh, giving Cedric and Harry a long, measured look—and then snickered gleefully. He leaned in toward Hermione and whispered something that Harry couldn’t hear.

Hermione recoiled instantly. “Theo!” she squealed, clutching her face with both hands. “I did not need to know that!”

Harry stared between them in confusion. “What—?”

“Ah—bollocks,” Cedric muttered under his breath.

Theo smirked and kissed Hermione’s cheek. “Rest up,” he murmured, then nodded to Cedric and Harry on his way out, his smirk not fading in the slightest.

Harry made a mental note to demand an explanation later.

He walked over and sat gently on the edge of Hermione’s bed. “You look… really good,” he said quietly. His voice wavered halfway through the sentence.

Hermione shot him a fierce look. “Nope—nuh-uh—don’t you even start with that tone, Harry Potter. I feel fine. There’s no pain and no long-term damage. So there will be no bedside weeping.”

“I wasn’t weeping!” Harry objected.

“Fine,” she said, “no brooding over things that aren’t your fault then.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, and Harry huffed—but the knot in his chest loosened slightly.

Before he could fire back a retort about how he hadn’t been brooding either, Hermione turned toward Cedric and reached out, taking his hand.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “The Gillyweed was a brilliant solution.”

“Of course,” Cedric said with a small smile, squeezing her hand once.

Then Hermione turned pointedly back to Harry. Her gaze locked with his.

“And you,” she said, poking him fiercely in the chest, “saved my life.”

Harry immediately opened his mouth to argue—but she raised her hand in warning.

“Do not even try to argue with me, Harry. I don’t want to hear a single word in disagreement. No other wizard could have cast that Bubblehead Charm underwater, in that kind of panic, and as many times as you had to when I kept popping it. End of story.”

She took a slow breath.

“And none of it was your fault to begin with.”

Harry bit his lip. He didn’t want to nod. But under that stare, he found himself doing it anyway.

Cedric let out a low chuckle. “You know him too well.”

Harry scowled at him. 

Hermione looked between them, her smile dimming just a little. Then she sat up straighter.

“Right,” she said. “Well. We should talk about Barty Crouch Junior, now then.”

Cedric straightened slightly, his brows drawing together. Harry, still perched beside her, felt a pulse of renewed tension in his chest.

Hermione glanced between them, then looked down, as if arranging the right pieces in her mind. “I’ve suspected for a while,” she said finally, “that Moody wasn’t who he said he was.”

Harry blinked. “Wait—you—how—?”

Hermione ignored Harry’s sputtering and continued, “Theo and I were piecing it together but we weren’t certain yet. Theo had Seen things—in his visions—and I… noticed some things. Inconsistencies and little behaviors that didn’t track. It wasn’t proof of anything, really—just enough for us to be cautious.”

Cedric let out a soft breath. “So you were investigating.”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “Carefully. Quietly. We didn’t want to act until we were sure. I was hoping to find hard evidence—something Dumbledore couldn’t ignore.”

Harry frowned. “Why not just tell him? Or Professor McGonagall? If you thought Moody was dangerous—”

“I didn’t know he knew that I knew,” she interrupted, her voice sharp.

She paused, closed her eyes for a moment, then softened. “I didn’t realize he’d figured us out. Not until I walked into Dumbledore’s office the night before the task.”

Harry’s stomach turned. “That’s when he got you?”

Hermione nodded. “Dumbledore was explaining that I was to be placed under an enchanted sleep for the task. Everything was going normally. And then… Moody looked at me.”

She shivered.

“There was something in his face. Like… satisfaction. Like I’d confirmed something for him just by being there. And then my necklace—” she touched the teardrop pendant that Theo had gifted her for Christmas, “—alerted me, and I knew that he had his wand pointed at me with malicious intent.”

Cedric’s jaw tightened.

“I realized then that I had to act. I opened my mouth to tell Dumbledore what I knew and…” She trailed off.

Harry leaned in. “What?”

Her voice was quieter now. “He hit me with the Imperius Curse.”

“What?” Cedric said sharply.

Harry’s hands clenched. “He cursed you?”

“To stay silent,” Hermione confirmed. “It was subtle. Neither Dumbledore nor McGonagall even noticed. But it stopped me from speaking—from telling Dumbledore.”

Harry stared at her, breath caught.

“Then Dumbledore cast the charm for enchanted sleep,” she finished. “The next thing I remember is waking up underwater with you, Harry.”

Harry didn’t speak right away. His stomach churned as he looked at her—really looked at her. Her expression was calm, composed, and her voice had stayed steady throughout the whole explanation.

But there was something… a little too controlled. A little too measured.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Hermione,” he said. “What else aren’t you saying?”

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re holding something back,” Harry said quietly. “You always talk like this when you’re editing in your head.”

Hermione hesitated just a beat too long.

“I’m not—”

“Hermione,” Cedric said, cutting her off gently, “you can tell us, if there’s something else.”

She looked between them both, her expression conflicted.

“I can’t tell you everything,” she admitted at last. “Not yet. I will—I promise I will—but… not until the timing is right.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Why—” he snapped through gritted teeth, “—why can’t you trust us with it now?”

“Harry, no—it’s not about not trusting you!” she said, startled. “It’s just—some of it isn’t even mine to tell. And the rest is… complicated. Dangerous, even, if someone were to take it from your mind.”

Harry instinctively touched the pendant at his neck—the one Hermione had given him on New Year’s Day. His fingers brushed the smooth metal surface absently.

“Take it from my mind,” he echoed. “You mean… Legilimency? Like you told me about over the holidays?”

Hermione nodded emphatically. “Exactly. It’s not common, but it’s not that rare either. And that necklace can only do so much.”

Harry’s stomach sank.

“Have you been teaching yourself Occlumency?” she asked. “With that book I gave you?”

Harry cringed, picturing the slim dark volume on his nightstand, currently buried under a week’s worth of clutter and quite possibly a half-eaten Chocolate Frog.

“Er…”

Hermione’s expression flattened.

Cedric, beside him, coughed into his hand to cover a snort.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You can argue for full disclosure after you do your homework, Harry.”

“Alright, alright,” Harry muttered sheepishly. “I’ll start tonight.”

Cedric turned to Hermione, clearly enjoying himself. “And where might one acquire a copy of this assigned reading?”

Hermione immediately brightened. “It’s called Mind Like a Mirror: Foundations of Practical Occlumency by Eudora Wren. You’ll have to owl order a copy from Flourish and Blotts, but it’s truly excellent for self-study. It has really thoughtful examples and tons of mental exercises. And if you and Harry study it together, you’ll probably get so much more out of it! How great would that be?”

Harry wrinkled his nose—which did not go unnoticed. Cedric laughed outright and Hermione glared at him.

“You better step it up,” she said briskly, “if you want to keep up with your impressive boyfriend.”

Harry flushed scarlet. His eyes jumped to Cedric, who just wagged his eyebrows with a smug grin.

Harry narrowed his eyes. Oh. It’s like that, is it?

Hermione clapped her hands together. “Well! As lovely as it is having you two here, you have limited time if you want to grab breakfast.”

Harry frowned and looked at his watch—an old Muggle one he’d nicked from Dudley’s rubbish bin ages ago. It was now thoroughly waterlogged from the lake. “We’ve got an hour, I think—”

“I’d advise against you walking into the Great Hall,” Hermione said dryly, “in the same clothes you wore after the Second Task yesterday.”

Harry froze as a horrible realization dawned. His face went nuclear with heat. “No—”

Hermione gave him a pained smile. “Mm-hm.”

He buried his face in his hands. “That’s what Theo said to you?” he groaned.

Hermione patted his elbow. “I will happily never speak of this again.”

“We just slept together!” Harry blurted—and then immediately turned scarlet. “I mean—not slept together, we just slept! Like, actually slept! No touching or—or stuff—”

“STOP!” Hermione shrieked, slapping both hands over her ears. “I am begging you to stop talking—get out, get out, get out!”

Harry let out a strangled noise and turned desperately to Cedric for help.

Cedric, utterly useless, was biting his lip to keep in his laughter.

Harry shot him a glare and then sprang to his feet to leave, already yanking the Invisibility Cloak out of his pocket.

Cedric caught his hand before he could disappear. “Hey, hey, hey—” he said soothingly.

“I’m never showing my face again,” Harry muttered darkly, pulling the shimmering fabric around his body.

Cedric leaned in, eyes sparkling. “You do realize that running away just makes you look more guilty, right?”

“Goodbye,” Harry hissed, already stomping out the door.

The Transfiguration Courtyard was quiet except for the soft crunch of snow beneath Harry’s shoes. He sat on the edge of a stone bench beneath a bare-limbed tree, the branches dusted with white. Pale sunlight filtered down through a hazy winter sky, and Harry’s breath clouded in front of him.

He unfolded the letter again, his gloved fingers trembling only slightly this time. He’d read it three times already, but the words still made something unsettled twist in his chest.

Harry,

I’ve spent the last month on the move, trying to throw off the Aurors and also sort out the ward permissions on various Black estates. I did check on the Black Villa in Northern Spain (the one Dumbledore recommended we use) and the short version of the problem is that I can only get us in if I take on the Black Lordship.

The thing you have to understand about the Lordship is that I swore I’d never accept it. Someday soon I’ll sit you down and explain the long and hideous history of the House of Black, and you’ll understand why. 

But if taking on the Lordship is the only way to make this work, of course I’ll do it—for you.

That said, I think it’s worth looking at all our options before I go making oaths I can’t undo. The oversized townhouse I grew up in, Grimmauld Place, will allow me and my guests entry without the Lordship… though I wouldn’t inflict that place on a stray cat, let alone you. That house is cursed with more than just the usual pureblood filth, and the portrait of my mother has never forgiven me for being born.

Dumbledore mentioned the idea of you purchasing and warding your own property with the Potter coffers. I hate that it might come to that—you should be playing pranks on your schoolmates, not house hunting—but the idea does have merit. You’d be able to stay in the country with appropriate protections, and I could at least visit occasionally. I wouldn’t be able to stay there permanently, even though I would want to. But for the foreseeable future I need to make frequent ‘appearances’ abroad to keep the Aurors on the wrong trail.

No matter what, we’ll make it work. But think on it, Harry. Choosing your own place—your own start—might be the best option.

- Sirius

 

Harry exhaled slowly, watching the letter curl slightly where stray snowflakes had landed. 

He’d do anything for me, Harry thought bitterly. Except that.

It wasn’t fair to be angry at him. Sirius had done everything he could to stay free, stay in touch, and help. But Harry couldn’t fight off the pang of disappointment. The picture in his head—of a little sunlit cottage somewhere in a foreign country with Sirius there to stay, to be the parental figure Harry had never had—flickered and faded.

He sighed, watching his breath curl in front of him lazily.

He turned over the idea of picking his own place in his head. Choosing where he’d live for the first time. Choosing curtains. Furniture. Saucepans. It felt absurd—like he was a kid playing dress-up in his parents’ clothing. And yet… something about it also made his chest flutter with a strange sort of excitement.

Harry was so deep in thought he didn’t hear the snow-crunching footsteps approaching.

“Bad news?”

Harry looked up and saw Cedric. His scarf was trailing slightly behind him and his cheeks were pink from the cold.

Harry shook his head. “Not really. Just… disappointing.” He forced a smile. “How’d you know I was here?”

Cedric winked and reached into his cloak. “I have my ways.”

He pulled out a folded scrap of parchment and handed it over.

Harry gaped. “Wait—is this…?”

“It’s not as impressive as yours,” Cedric admitted, grinning. “It’s just a practice version. I’ve been fiddling with location charms for a few weeks now. This one only tracks about eight people—and only in the main corridors, classrooms, and courtyards. Turns out mapping an entire magical castle is a bit of a nightmare.”

Harry traced a finger over the tiny ink figure labeled "Harry Potter" standing in a snow-dusted courtyard. His mouth fell open slightly.

“This is wicked.”

Cedric shrugged, pleased. “It has its uses.”

“Like stalking me?” Harry teased.

“Exactly,” Cedric deadpanned. He sat down beside Harry on the bench, stretching his legs out and leaning back on his hands. “So. Do you want to talk about it?”

Harry hesitated, then handed over the letter.

Cedric read in silence, his expression inscrutable. When he looked back up, his eyes were curious.

“You’re really considering it, then? Getting your own place?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. It feels ridiculous. I mean—I’m a bit young to be thinking about buying a house.”

“True,” Cedric said, smiling faintly. “But you’re also Harry Potter. The usual rules never seem to apply.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “That’s not comforting.”

Cedric’s smile deepened. “Didn’t mean it to be. But still... you could do worse than getting to pick your own place. It’s more work, but it also means you can choose somewhere that suits you.”

Harry huffed. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“I’ll help,” Cedric said lightly. Then, with a more thoughtful tilt to his head: “There are a lot of wizarding neighborhoods that sit somewhere between the chaos of Diagon Alley and the… quiet of Hogsmeade. Places with charm, but not swamped with tourists or drowning in retirees.”

Harry considered that, his fingers absently brushing snow off the bench. “I think… I can imagine myself in either. Depends on the day.”

Cedric smiled. “Then the next thing to think about is access to amenities.”

Harry frowned. “Access to what?”

Cedric’s eyes twinkled. “Things you’ll want nearby. Unless you plan to live in some full-blown manor estate—which, no offense, I really can’t picture for you—you’ll want to be close to some community stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Well, public Quidditch pitches, for one.”

Harry gaped. “There are public Quidditch pitches?”

Cedric laughed softly. “Yeah. In some neighborhoods. Not everywhere, but most mid-sized magical towns have one. And if you’re really lucky, you’ll find a place with a decent rec league.”

Harry was still stuck on the first part. “You’re telling me there are places where people just… go and fly? For fun? Without worrying about Muggles seeing them?”

Cedric gave him a fond look. “Yes, Harry. Not everyone has to sneak a broom onto a roof and hope their neighbors don’t spot them.”

Harry flushed but smiled, and Cedric bumped their knees together gently.

“I’ve never played on a rec team,” Cedric added with a wistful smile. “Ottery St. Catchpole only has a handful of magical families, and we’re all spread out across the countryside.”

Harry nodded slowly, imagining it—walking out his front door to go flying at a small pitch. Something in his chest ached pleasantly just at the thought.

“Okay, fine. I’m convinced. I’ll choose a location based on Quidditch pitch access.”

Cedric laughed. “You have the priorities of a teenager.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “That’s because I am a teenager. And now that I’m a technical adult, no one can stop me if I want to buy the flat above Fortescue’s and eat ice cream for breakfast every day.”

Cedric pretended to look scandalized. “At least promise me you’ll alternate between chocolate and fruit sorbet. That’s just basic nutrition.”

Harry snorted, then watched as Cedric tapped his (distracting) lips in mock thought. “What else…” A beat passed. “Ah! After narrowing it down to places with a pitch,” Cedric said, “you could think about the landscape. Do you want to live in the mountains? Near a lake like Hogwarts? Or the ocean?”

Harry blinked. “I’ve never been to the ocean.”

Cedric’s expression shifted, conveying five flickers of emotion in half a second: surprise—sadness—pity—anger—and something protective. And then he bit the inside of his cheek and forced a crooked smile.

“Well,” he said, “we’ll just have to fix that this summer.”

Harry dropped his gaze. There was a tightness in his chest suddenly—the kind that used to show up when the Dursleys locked the door or tossed his birthday breakfast in the bin. That same ache of what-could-have-been.

But Cedric, as always, knew exactly how to shift the conversation and free Harry from the onslaught of bad memories.

“Different regions get totally different weather, too. If you don’t want more winters like Hogwarts, then scratch Scotland off the list.”

Harry shrugged. “I actually think I like it up north better. It’s more… dramatic. Or at least more interesting than Surrey.”

Cedric bumped his shoulder. “Now we’re getting somewhere! Quidditch-field-adjacent and in wild-weathered-Scotland.”

Harry laughed. “How many places does that leave?”

“I don’t have the foggiest,” Cedric said with a shrug. Then his face lit up. “But I do know who you need to talk to!”

Harry groaned. “Let me guess. A real estate agent?”

“Nope,” Cedric grinned, hopping to his feet and grabbing Harry’s hand. “C’mon!”

“Whuh—?”

“Trust me,” Cedric said, dragging him through the snow-dusted courtyard and back into the castle.

The corridors were comfortably quiet, the Sunday hush hanging thick in the air. Harry spotted a number of students curled up by the alcove fireplaces as they passed the Great Hall, despite dinner not being for another two hours. They were heading upstairs now, and it wasn’t until Cedric stopped in front of a familiar oak door that Harry’s jaw dropped.

“McGonagall?” he hissed under his breath. “You brought me to Professor McGonagall?”

Cedric winked. “Who better to advise you on Scottish housing and proper weatherproofing?”

Before Harry could object, Cedric knocked on the door. He then spun on his heel and retreated at full speed down the corridor.

“Cedric—!” Harry hissed in protest. “Get back here!”

But the office door opened before he could flee.

Professor McGonagall stood in prim robes, a tartan shawl draped over her shoulders and a steaming cup of tea in her hand. She raised an eyebrow. “Can I help you, Mr. Potter?”

Harry blinked. “Er—I… this is going to sound completely mad.”

Her brow arched higher.

“Right. Um.” He cleared his throat and fidgeted. “Turns out I need a place to live this summer—or, well, for all future summers I guess. Professor Dumbledore suggested I consider… buying a house?”

To her credit, McGonagall didn’t even blink.

“Anyway,” Harry added lamely, “Cedric thought you might be the best person to talk to about what living in Scotland is like.”

There was a pause. Then she stepped aside and gestured for him to enter.

“Well,” she said dryly, “I daresay I can tell you a thing or two about that. Come in, Potter.”

He entered with an awkward shuffle, and she gestured for him to sit while summoning a second teacup.

“Now,” she said, pouring him a cup of tea, “when I was a girl, I grew up in Caithness. We had a home in a small wizarding settlement not far from Loch Calder. There was a Quidditch pitch carved right into the moor—it was half-mud, mind you, but that hardly matters when you’re in the air. That’s where I learned to fly…”

Harry smiled. Warmth bloomed in his chest as he cradled his cuppa and listened to his professor describe her childhood home.

The way she spoke of the loch and the moor made Harry feel as if Scotland held more than fog and frost—it held magic of its own. The kind of magic that was old, patient, and woven into the land itself.

And Harry rather liked the sound of that.

Chapter Text

Hermione

It was now day two in the Hospital Wing and Hermione was well-past stir-crazy. She did not appreciate being coddled by an overly attentive matron when she was (in mind) nineteen years old. 

She was bored. She was crabby. And she was far too busy to be forbidden from strolling down to the library.

Theo had gone to take notes on the creation of portkeys; given that portkey creation outside of the sanctioned Ministry office was illegal, the only books he would be able to find would be read-only in the Restricted Section. 

Hermione was finally reprieved from rereading her fourth year textbooks when Harry arrived, looking sheepish. It was just after breakfast and he had a letter in hand.

“Mrs. Fernsby wrote back,” he said, fiddling with the envelope. “I was—er—hoping you might want to…?”

Hermione gave him a bemused look. “Yes, Harry. I would be happy to deal with your lawyer for you,” she said drolly.

“You’re the one who made me hire her,” he grumbled, handing over the letter.

“Touché,” she conceded absently. She took a moment to admire the wax seal that read Fernsby & Associates with a border of slow-moving birds.

Dear Mr. Potter,

This letter is to inform you that litigation proceedings for libel and character defamation, specifically regarding the “Heir-Who-Lied” article published by the Daily Prophet in November, are formally underway. You may expect updates as progress is made through the Wizengamot.

As previously discussed, due to your changed legal status from minor to adult Wizard, additional claims against the Prophet will be less likely to succeed in court. Therefore, “burying” the paper through legal means, as you had requested, is likely unfeasible. That said, if your intent is not destruction but control, I would encourage you to consider quietly purchasing equity through various holding firms. Over time, majority ownership of the Prophet could offer you editorial influence.

Warm regards,
Marietta Fernsby, Esq.

Hermione’s jaw fell open with an audible click.

“You alright?” Harry asked, munching on a leftover toast triangle from her breakfast tray.

“Why didn’t I think of that,” Hermione said, her voice coming out embarrassingly petulant. 

Harry merely raised a brow, waiting for her to explain.

“She recommended that you slowly amass majority control of the Daily Prophet by buying it—slowly and subtly. With enough holdings you would gain ownership of the largest newspaper in magical Britain.”

Harry made a face. “That seems… extreme.”

Hermione nodded blithely. “It would be—and it would also be absolutely genius. It could change so much in the year to come—!”

She snapped her mouth shut as Harry’s eyes widened. 

“How much does Theo know?”

Hermione quickly fell back on her most surefire evasion strategy: “How’s that Occlumency coming, Harry?”

He scowled at her but didn’t push the topic any further. “I mean, if it means fewer articles about my romantic life or whether I’m the Heir of Slytherin, I’m not exactly opposed to owning the Prophet. Seems mad, though.”

“Well, before we get ahead of ourselves,” Hermione said, folding her hands primly in her lap. “How rich are you, exactly?”

Harry gave an embarrassed shrug and said, “No idea.”

Hermione bit back a sigh. “Right. Of course not.” Then, after a pause: “We should write to your account manager at Gringotts. Have them conduct a full valuation. You might as well know what kind of options you’re working with.”

He looked reluctant. “Do I have to?”

“Honestly, Harry,” she said with reproach, already reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment. “I’ll write it but you’ll have to muster the energy to at least sign it after.”

Harry nodded, looking properly chagrined. “Hey—can you ask what kind of house I can afford while you’re at it?”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose just as the door to the Hospital Wing opened again.

Ron stood in the entrance, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, eyes darting between Harry and Hermione.

Hermione felt her spine straighten instinctively. Harry went still.

“Er… hi.” Ron gave a nervous little wave before stuffing his hands back in his pockets. 

Hermione narrowed her eyes, but he continued before she could say anything.

“I just…” he started, then trailed off. He took a deep breath. “I know I already tried to apologize. Before. But I didn’t do a good job.” His face flushed splotchy red. “I did a pretty shite job, actually. And then I went and made things worse because—well—I honestly don’t know why. But I was a right prat about everything.” He scuffed his boot against the tiled floor. “After what happened in the lake... I mean—you almost died , Hermione, and after being a total arse all year… It’s not like I had the right to just waltz in and see if you were alright.”

The tension in Hermione’s shoulders began to loosen.

Ron forged on, voice more certain now. “I know I can’t just say sorry and expect everything to be how it was. But I’d like to at least try to start fixing things. If that’s okay.”

There was an uncomfortable silence as Ron’s gaze danced between Harry and Hermione, as though too nervous to look at either of them for too long.

Harry finally broke the stalemate, giving him a slow nod. “I’d like that. The—er—trying.”

Hermione studied Harry, seeing clear as day the yearning buried beneath the surface for things to be put right with Ron. She couldn’t stand in the way of that. 

She gave Ron a small smile. “Me too.”

Ron let out a breath that sounded like half-relief, half-exhaustion. “Right. Okay. I’ll, er—I’ll get out of your hair.”

He turned to go, but Hermione called after him as a worry suddenly spun through her mind, “Ron—Wait!”

He spun back around, brows knitted.

“Even if the three of us start to patch things up… You should keep spending time with Neville, too.”

Ron cocked his head slightly. “Er… alright. I wasn’t really planning on not.”

The knot in her chest loosened at the look of surprise and confusion on Ron’s face. It was one less thing for her to worry about; Neville wasn’t going to be dropped by Ron the second he made up with them.

As Ron left, she began on the letter for Harry’s account manager. Everything was at least marginally better this time, right? The graveyard was still looming—still treacherous. But all of the little things, like their web of friends, were forming sooner and stronger in this timeline. 

She would count that as a success, for now.

The moment Hermione stepped out of the hospital wing she was met by the image of Theo, looking expectant and mischievous.

"Fancy skiving off lessons for the day?" he asked with a roguish grin, offering his arm with a dramatic flair. 

Hermione arched a brow. "I just missed half a week of lessons."

“Did you really?” he asked with faux shock. "How strange—you look like someone who’s earned a day of frivolity to me.” He snapped his fingers as though he’d just had a realization, adding, “Ohhh I see now. You missed half a week of lessons to recover from a murder attempt, not for truancy."

Hermione sighed, only half pretending to be exasperated. "I still missed those classes."

He hummed, stepping closer. "Yes, but that doesn’t count toward your tally of skived off lessons, now does it? What I am proposing is entirely different."

She smiled despite herself, shaking her head.

“C’mon, Hermione,” Theo murmured, lifting her chin with a finger, his lips only a breath away from hers. “Live a little.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest despite the logical protests brewing somewhere in her frontal lobe. He smelled faintly of bergamot and ink.

“Alright.” She pecked a brief kiss onto his lips (they were so accessible, after all), and waved her hand. “Lead the way, then.”

Theo stood there, momentarily startled, and then shook his head with a slow, pleased smile. “Merlin,” he teased. “If I’d known rule-breaking earned kisses, I’d have started earlier.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her amusement.

He offered his arm again, and this time she took it without hesitation. Together they strolled through the corridor, the morning light slanting through tall windows and pooling on the stone floor.

“Can I know where we’re going?” she asked after a few quiet steps.

“No,” Theo said playfully. “But I’ll give you a hint: there will be cushions.”

Hermione gave him a suspicious side-eye. 

Theo gasped, his free hand jumping to his chest dramatically. “Not for anything nefarious—I am a gentleman, Miss Granger! I merely meant to hint at the Divination Tower.”

“We’re skipping lessons for Divination?”

“Not for real Divination. Just… Divination-adjacent activities. You’ll see.” He resumed walking and tugged her along by the hand. “Apparently, Trelawney’s off at some gathering called ‘The Convocation of the Veiled Eye.’”

Hermione snorted. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke about fraudulent mysticism.”

“And why aren’t you there, oh gifted Seer?”

Theo gave a pained sigh. “Because I wither in the vicinity of frauds, I’m afraid. It’s really quite tragic—I’m like a moonshade blossom at dawn. And this is the quintessential gathering of egos and nonsense. They hold it biannually or when, I quote, ‘the planetary alignments allow.’ Which is to say, whenever most of them can afford the train fare to Cornwall.”

Hermione laughed despite herself, and he squeezed her fingers.

“But on the bright side,” Theo added, voice dropping into a conspiratorial drawl, “we’ve got the Divination Tower all to ourselves.” 

Her cheeks warmed. 

They reached the spiral staircase, and climbed. Hermione caught Theo watching her from time to time, as though she might spontaneously keel over, and she shot him annoyed looks in response. 

Though, admittedly, her lungs were aching a bit by the time they reached the top.

“Gods, I forgot the smell,” she groused, holding open the trapdoor as Theo followed her into the round classroom.

Theo lazily cast a Clean Air Charm, a wry smile on his face. “Is it giving you flashbacks?”

“Oh yes,” she jested, walking to one of the low, round tables. “‘The Grim! The worst omen—the omen of death!’” she cried out in a terrible impression of Trelawney.

Theo let out a snort of laughter. “Best not try for a career in acting.”

“You haven’t seen my Snape impression.”

“Nor do I want to.”

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him and sank onto one of the giant poufs. She reached for the nearby teapot. “Please tell me you brought a proper blend. Trelawney’s tea tastes like incense.”

“Ah,” Theo said, swooping in and taking the teapot from her. “Not to worry, dear Seer, today the tea will be made by someone with taste.” 

“My hero,” she cooed with sickly sweetness, fluttering her eyelashes jokingly.

Theo faltered—his eyes danced between her lips and lashes.

Hermione’s stomach flipped as she caught the shift in his expression. “I didn’t think a little eyelash flutter would do you in,” she mumbled.

Theo made a show of preparing the tea with great care. “It didn’t,” he said airily.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who invited me to lounge around in a tower full of cushions.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t expect to be visually accosted by a brown-eyed Morgana,” he murmured, tapping the pot with his wand to set it boiling. 

A faint heat crept into her cheeks.

The conversation stalled for a beat as Theo poured them each a cup, a notable elegance to his movements. Her eyes caught on his fingers, his throat, his lips…

She mentally smacked herself. Needing something to distract her misbehaving eyes, Hermione reached for her cup—but Theo’s hand shot out to stall her. “It’s boiling hot still,” he warned, fingers brushing hers as he nudged the cup gently out of reach.

“Oh. Right,” Hermione said quickly, snatching her hands back like she’d been caught doing something wrong.

Theo watched her with visible amusement. “Something on your mind?” he asked, leaning toward her with a smirk.

“What? No!” she scoffed.

He hummed, still grinning. “You’re thinking about all these cushions and the time we have to kill while the tea cools.”

Her face flushed. “I am not—”

Theo tapped his wand on the side of the teapot again. “There,” he said with infuriating certainty. “Now it will alert us when it drops to a drinkable temperature.”

Before she could do more than huff with annoyance (honestly, he was so presumptuous), Theo was pulling her towards him with a hand at the nape of her neck.

He kissed her like it was a challenge he planned to win—smooth and coaxing and terribly self-assured. His spare hand slid to the curve of her waist as he leaned in, and the scent of bergamot wrapped around her like steam.

Hermione made a small, involuntary sound in the back of her throat, and felt him grin in response. Like he was winning.

Which, of course, would simply not do.

Before he could capture a second kiss, she pressed both hands to his chest and shoved him backward—gently, but firmly—sending him sprawling across the pile of poufs and pillows. He made a startled noise, eyes blinking open just as she followed, leaning over him without hesitation.

Her braid slipped over her shoulder, brushing his collarbone, and she ghosted her lips over his as she whispered, “You’re too smug. About everything.”

Then she snogged him like it was a dare. Like she meant to erase every trace of his grin with her mouth. She held herself up with one hand so that she could slide the fingers of the other into his hair, nails grazing his scalp just enough to make him exhale sharply. When his hands gripped her waist in return, she licked across the seam of his lips intently, and he opened to her with a yearning sound. 

Whatever control he thought he’d had a moment ago—she had it now.

And judging by the way his fingers clenched desperately against her waist, Theo was very much aware of that.

The kiss was heated—wet—

And interrupted.

A startled squeak escaped her when the charmed teapot shrieked at them that it was ready. The logical part of her brain came back in a rush and she sat upright with wide eyes.

…What point had she been trying to prove, exactly?

Theo just panted and stared, as though completely dazed by her actions.

“I guess you didn’t See that,” she blurted—mouth far faster than mind. 

He let out a startled bark of laughter. “No. That was—” he cleared his throat and ran a hand through his mussed hair, “—new.”  

“Right,” she said, her voice pitched just a tad high. 

Theo was still catching his breath, eyes dark and a little wild. He dragged his gaze from her lips to her eyes with visible effort.

Hermione cleared her throat and moved back to her pouf. “Well. Since the tea seems to think it’s ready…”

“Mm,” Theo agreed hoarsely, joining her back at the table. “Best not delay a revelation of truth to our Inner Eyes.”

That earned a huffed laugh from her.

She began steadily sipping her tea—Theo doing the same beside her but while watching her over the rim of his teacup. 

As soon as she neared the bottom, she swirled the cup and placed it upside down on the saucer.  

Theo smirked. “Someone knows what they’re doing.”

She scoffed. “I spent months in that dreadful class—some horrors can’t be fully buried.”

After a beat, he took her cup and studied it with exaggerated seriousness, clicking his tongue thoughtfully. “Ah yes. Very clear.”

“Oh?”

“I see… a tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome wizard,” Theo said gravely, “falling madly in love with you.”

Hermione swallowed, heart fluttering as she fought to hold her composure. “How original.”

“I’m just reading the leaves.”

She hummed. “Are you sure it doesn’t say ‘smug Slytherin with delusions of grandeur?’”

Theo raised a brow, his eyes twinkling. “Why—does it look like I’m falling in love with you?” 

A strangled wheeze escaped her throat, but before she could say something foolish Theo calmly pushed his cup toward her. “Your turn, then. Tell me what fate the leaves have in store for me, O Wise One.”

After another beat of panic and fluttery gaping, Hermione plucked his cup from the table. It was, as expected, full of lumpy tea leaves. She cleared her throat. “Let’s see… doom. A shocking betrayal. Possibly… toe fungus?”

Theo gave her an affronted look. “That’s no way to treat someone who made you tea.”

“I’m just reading the leaves,” she said innocently.

Eventually they moved on from tea leaves to Muggle tarot cards (which neither Theo nor Hermione knew how to interpret), and then to the least effective method of all: staring dramatically into a crystal ball until one of them cackled.

Hermione flopped onto her side, laughing breathlessly into a velvet cushion. “I can’t believe Trelawney gets paid for this.”

Theo sprawled across from her, his head propped up with his elbow. “It’s not all rubbish—I did rather well in the dream journal portion of the class.”

“Of course you did.”

He smiled wistfully. “I only wrote down my most horrifying visions—Trelawney loved them.”

Hermione gasped, bolting upright and pointing accusingly at Theo. “You’re the reason she kept predicting Harry’s death!”

“Hermione,” he said, drawing out the syllables of her name. The look on his face was one of second-hand embarrassment. “I didn’t dream of you—let alone Potter—before this year.”

“Oh,” she said dumbly, heat creeping up her neck. “Right. Of course.”

There was a beat of quiet. Theo watched her, something thoughtful settling in his features.

“So… I really didn’t start showing up in your visions until this year?” Hermione asked, fidgeting with the edge of her cushion.

He hummed. “Not even a flicker. You showed up for the first time in late August and then never went away.”

Hermione smiled softly at that, then settled back into the pillows as she mulled it over. “That tracks. I was sent back to the very end of summer. That’ll be when the timeline was reset.”

Theo tilted his head. “And before that—back in your original timeline—did we…?” He trailed off, brow lifted in curiosity.

“Interact?” she finished, smirking a little.

“Well,” he said dryly, “I assumed we hadn’t dated, given that you spent all of autumn dodging me.”

That made her laugh, and she looked down at her hands for a moment. “We didn’t. Interact, I mean. Not really.” Her voice went softer. “You were always… distant. Quiet. I don’t think you and Harry ever even spoke.”

Theo’s mouth twisted, looking a touch wry and a touch sad. “Sounds about right.”

She looked back up at him, her tone earnest as she added, “That was a shame, though.”

“Oh?” he probed, eyes averted.

Hermione nodded. “Things are better with you around.”

Theo didn’t smile right away. He just looked up at her, gaze unreadable but steady. And then, as if he couldn’t help it, the corner of his mouth curled.

“Well,” he murmured, voice low and fond, “I’ll try to stick around, then.”

The silence that followed was comfortable and cozy. The light filtering through the tower windows was honey-warm despite the late-winter chill outside. From this height, the castle felt very far away.

Hermione felt warmed from the inside out. A smile caught her lips every now and then as she thought of how she’d spent her day so far.

It had definitely been worth missing lessons for.

Theo shifted beside her and reached into his coat pocket. “By the way… before I forget.”

Hermione glanced over, surprised.

He pulled out a tiny velvet pouch—forest green, cinched shut with a gold thread—and offered it wordlessly. His expression had gone carefully neutral, his eyes more anxious than moments before.

Curious, Hermione pushed herself up and took the pouch. Inside was a bracelet—delicate and lovely—impossibly so. Fine, glinting metalwork formed a chain as light as spider silk that shimmered as she lifted it into the light. At the center, a single stone—small, opalescent, and faintly iridescent—was set into the clasp.

It was… stunning. Not flashy, not loud. Just quietly exquisite.

“Theo,” she breathed, blinking. “It’s beautiful.”

He cleared his throat. “It’s enchanted,” he said, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. “If you ever—if you’re ever in danger, or overwhelmed, or just… want me there—press the stone. And think of me. That’s all it takes. I’ll know. And I’ll come.”

Hermione stared down at it, heart thudding.

“I had it made after…” He trailed off, the unspoken words lingering. After the lake. After she nearly drowned. After he had faced the thought of losing her.

Hermione’s eyes stung. She swallowed hard.

“It doesn’t track you or anything,” he added quickly. “It’s more like… an elegant version of sending up sparks. It gives me a vague idea of how to get to you.”

Her fingers trembled slightly as she fastened it around her wrist. It was the most delicate piece of jewelry she’d ever owned—and now the most meaningful.

“It’s perfect—both lovely and useful.”

Theo gave her a gentle and slightly lopsided smile. “That was the idea.”

She leaned in, catching his shirt collar in one hand, and kissed him slowly. Not heated and competitive like earlier. Just full of feeling. When she pulled back, his eyes were soft and reassured.

“I love it,” she said simply.

“I’m glad.”

They didn’t speak for a while after that.

Just lay tangled together among the cushions, watching the crystal balls casting soft, fractured rainbows across the tower’s walls and ceiling. Hermione let her head rest on Theo’s chest, the thump of his heart a steady rhythm beneath her cheek. She breathed in bergamot and parchment and some other spices from the tea.

“I’ve been so scared of ruining this,” Theo said suddenly, voice low.

Hermione tilted her head slightly, just enough to see the edge of his profile. “Why?”

“I didn’t want to make you feel like I was handing you some… predestined script and asking you to read your lines,” he said. “Like you didn’t get a say.”

Her brow furrowed. “Is that what your visions feel like? A script?”

He shook his head. “More like… glimpses of what the script could be. I never stick to it—life would be too boring if I did. But it’s—” Theo started, then stopped. His fingers flexed lightly around hers. “It’s hard not to… care deeply for someone when your mind is full of them. Constantly. In every version of what could be.”

Her breath hitched.

He was blushing now, faint but unmistakable, and staring up at the ceiling like it might let him off the hook.

“It’s messy in my head sometimes,” he admitted, voice incredibly soft. “Trying to sort it all out. What is, what might be. I’m always—” he huffed a quiet laugh “—holding myself back. Telling myself not to feel too much too soon.”

Hermione’s throat went tight. The bracelet on her wrist caught the fading light and glinted softly between them. She could only stare at him, her pulse fluttering.

“I don’t expect anything,” he added. “I just needed you to know.”

She shifted upward, nuzzling her face against his neck.

“I’m glad you told me,” she whispered against his skin. 

His fingers threaded gently through the hair at the nape of her neck, cradling her like she was something precious.

And for a moment, neither of them said anything more.

They didn’t need to.

Chapter Text

Harry

It had been a frosty April morning when Harry left Hogwarts, but the Ministry of Magic’s Atrium was toasty warm. It smelled of spent floo powder and hummed with the sound of hundreds of leather shoes on stone. 

Harry had barely stepped out of the floo before the sheer size of the place hit him—the polished marble floors, the towering golden ceiling, the gleaming rows of fireplaces stretching the entire length of the vast Atrium. He turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in. At the far end of the hall, a grand fountain burbled cheerfully with a massive statue of a wizard, witch, goblin, centaur, and house-elf. Cedric came out behind him and made a face, muttering something about it being as gaudy as ever.

Dumbledore led them forward with an easy stride. He was wearing bright plum robes embroidered with silver songbirds and looked, somehow, both utterly commanding and slightly barmy.

Harry was still trying to make sense of why they were even there.

A week ago, he’d received a letter from Dumbledore—short and vaguely worded—asking for his assistance retrieving “an item of significance” from a restricted area of the Ministry called the Department of Mysteries. Dumbledore had written that their permission to access the space was “loose” (whatever that meant), and that bringing Mr. Diggory, were he amenable, might make things smoother. The three of them would visit the Ministry together under the pretense of “an educational outing for the Hogwarts Champions.”

Cedric had agreed without hesitation, looking just as intrigued as Harry.

So now they were here, being waved over to a security booth staffed by a pimply young wizard in mustard-colored robes. 

“Wands, please,” he droned.

Cedric went first, followed by Harry, who passed over the wand in his pocket—the one he had acquired (stolen) from Dumbledore—and watched as the wizard placed it on a brass scale etched with runes. A thin ribbon of gold script unfurled from it:

Elder wood - Thestral hair core - Fifteen inches

The wizard’s eyebrows shot up. “Huh. Haven’t seen that combination before.” He gave Harry a closer look, then turned to Dumbledore, who was casually placing Harry’s original wand on the same scale. The ribbon unfurled again:

Holly wood - Phoenix feather core - Eleven inches

The wizard gave a low whistle and handed the wands back. “Holly and phoenix—unique but not unheard of. But this one?” He tapped Harry’s wand. “Bit of old superstition, that. ‘Wand of elder, never prosper.’”

Harry grimaced. “What does that mean?”

The wizard shrugged. “Just an old saying. No one really knows where it came from. Something about bad luck following those who use elder wands.” He offered a vague smile and waved them through. “On you go.”

Harry shot a look at Dumbledore, who said nothing, but there was a trace of something amused in his expression. Cedric caught Harry’s eye and gave a little shrug as they passed through the security gate and entered the Atrium proper.

They didn’t get far.

A sudden flash lit up the space in front of them; a hoard of reporters surged forward, quills scratching, cameras snapping, and questions flying.

Harry froze with wide eyes, feeling grateful when Cedric instinctively stepped in front of him. Dumbledore turned with a fixed smile toward an approaching man wearing a familiar, lime-green bowler hat.

“Good morning, Cornelius,” he said, blue eyes sharp. “What a coincidence—running into you as we’re passing through.”

The Minister of Magic swept forward to shake Dumbledore’s hand, puffed up like a shockingly well-kempt pigeon. “Albus! You might have warned me you were bringing celebrities to the Ministry today,” he chastised with an oversized smile. He turned next to Harry and Cedric, practically forcing handshakes on them as the cameras flashed. “And how are our Hogwarts Champions faring? Well-recovered after that little accident in the Second Task, I hope?”

Cedric’s jaw tightened. Harry’s face landed somewhere between disbelief and disgust.

Dumbledore clasped his hands behind his back. “This is merely a brief visit of an educational nature, arranged specially for our two Champions. We didn’t intend to cause any fuss.”

“Educational?” Fudge echoed, greedy eyes lighting up. “I take it Mr. Diggory and Mr. Potter are exploring future career opportunities at the Ministry—”

“If you’ll excuse us, Cornelius. We’re on a tight schedule.”

He gave a perfunctory nod to the Minister and then stepped forward, forcing the crowd of reporters to part like water around stone, and Harry and Cedric followed in his wake. Harry could still feel the heat of the camera flashes, and his mind was racing with questions.

None louder than: What exactly were they here to retrieve?

They entered an elevator with hanging straps; they foretold wild movement akin to the Knight Bus. Harry grabbed onto one as doors slid shut with a faint clink, and the moment the grating sealed them inside, Dumbledore sighed lightly and said, “My sincerest apologies to you both. That was, regrettably, the simplest method to mislead others about the nature of our visit.”

Harry gaped at him. “Wait—you told them we’d be coming?”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Not exactly. I merely leaked a rumor to Cornelius through a friend. I can always trust the Minister to seize a spotlight when offered one.” He glanced at them over his spectacles. “And your presence, Harry, tends to magnify the effect.”

Cedric let out a quiet chuckle, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Well, it worked.”

Harry, meanwhile, stared at the floor, trying not to think about his face showing up in the Prophet again . 

Cedric nudged him gently with his shoulder. “Could’ve been worse,” he said under his breath. “At least you didn’t blush at the Minister of Magic.”

Harry’s face instantly went hot. He glanced up, mortified, and found Dumbledore examining the upper corner of the lift with deep fascination.

The elevator gave a low ding, and the golden grille slid open to reveal a narrow corridor lit only by wall-mounted torches. 

“Level Nine, Department of Mysteries,” said a disembodied female voice.

The air changed the moment they stepped out; it was cooler and quieter, like the walls were swallowing sound.

A tall wizard in long black robes stood waiting for them. His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed somewhere slightly to the left of Harry’s nose. A badge on his chest bore a name and a title:

Broderick Bode — Unspeakable

“Headmaster,” Bode said with a slow nod. “Good to see you again.”

“Thank you, Broderick,” Dumbledore replied with quiet formality. “These are my guests—Mr. Harry Potter and Mr. Cedric Diggory.”

Bode inclined his head again, but said nothing. He turned sharply on his heel and began walking, his footsteps silent against the stone. They followed, Harry staying close to Cedric.

They passed doors. So many doors. Each was identical—black, handleless, and humming faintly with enchantments. Harry could feel the thrum of the magic in the air, a low pulse that made the hairs on the back of his neck lift. He wondered what was behind them. He felt a deep curiosity take root... 

Eventually, they reached a black door that looked no different from the rest, save for the silver runes etched into the frame.

Bode stopped.

“This is the Hall,” he said simply, then stepped aside.

Dumbledore moved to the door and rested one hand on the runes. They shimmered faintly beneath his palm, and the door clicked open without a sound.

The air inside was colder.

It looked like a cathedral. Endless rows of towering shelves rose around them, stretching into the shadows of the domed chamber, each shelf crammed with delicate glass orbs, all softly glowing.

Cedric swallowed audibly. “What is this place?”

Dumbledore’s voice was very soft. “The Hall of Prophecy.”

A beat passed.

“Do not touch anything,” Dumbledore said firmly, his voice echoing slightly beneath the high dome, “unless I give you explicit permission. The enchantments on these orbs are quite… aggressive. Mishandling them can result in pain, madness, or death.”

Harry stiffened at the harsh warning, feeling Cedric do the same beside him. 

“Come now,” Dumbledore continued, tone mild again. “We are looking for row ninety-seven.”

They followed in silence, their footsteps echoing off the ancient stone floor. Harry glanced back only once and felt a cold shiver jolt down his spine—Broderick Bode had vanished. No sound, no farewell. Just disappeared. Like he’d never been there at all.

His discomfort must have shown, because Cedric’s hand brushed lightly against his—brief, but reassuring. Harry brushed his knuckles against Cedric’s in return, lingering for one more moment before focusing back on the row placards:

Row 90. Row 93. Row 95...

When they reached it—Row 97—Dumbledore came to a halt and turned to face them.

“What lies in this row,” he said slowly, “pertains to you, Harry. If you desire privacy, please say so now.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked, genuinely confused. “What is this thing we’re even here for?”

Dumbledore responded patiently, “We are here to retrieve a prophecy, Harry. That is what all of the orbs in the Hall contain.”

Harry swallowed. The thought of sending Cedric away—that Cedric might think he wanted him to leave—sat wrong in his gut. 

“I don’t mind,” Harry said after a pause. His voice sounded calmer than he felt.

Dumbledore nodded once. “Very well. The orb we seek will be one you alone may retrieve. Do not touch anything else, no matter what.”

Harry gave a solemn nod. Cedric gave a curt nod right after.

They moved down the aisle—flanked on both sides by endless shelves of fragile, softly glowing spheres. Some had layers of dust. Others were so faint in their glow they looked almost extinguished.

And with every step, the unease in Harry’s chest grew. He couldn’t name the feeling exactly, but it was as if some small voice in the back of his mind had begun screaming wait, wait, don’t go further—and yet he didn’t know how to stop. He had to know.

Dumbledore stopped.

Harry stepped forward and saw the orb in question—seemingly just like the others. Except this one...

The label made his breath catch.

S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D.
Dark Lord and Harry Potter

His name was… taped on.

Taped on. Like an afterthought.

His stomach turned over.

“What is it?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper. His mouth was dry. “What does it mean?”

Dumbledore’s eyes did not leave the orb. “It is the recording of a prophecy,” he said quietly. “One that has shaped your life more than you could have known. Spoken by Sybill Trelawney, long ago. You are one of the subjects of the prophecy, and so you alone may retrieve it.”

Harry stared. “This is why we came down here?”

Dumbledore inclined his head.

Harry hesitated only a moment longer before reaching out. His fingers closed around the orb—and nothing happened. It was smooth and cool and surprisingly light in his hand. He looked into the swirling, fog-like interior, half-expecting it to burst or burn or do something.

Then the mist inside began to gather. To coalesce.

To speak.

And out of the vapour, an image formed: Sybill Trelawney, an unmistakable younger version of her, head tilted back, eyes wide and unseeing as she chanted in a hollow, echoing voice:

“ The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...
born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...
and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal,
but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not...
and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...
the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies... ”

She vanished into mist.

Harry stood very still.

Then the prophecy repeated.

And it was worse the second time. Because now he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t heard it clearly. That he didn’t understand.

He was the one with the power… to kill Voldemort.

He stared down at the orb in his hand. It felt heavier now.

The last echoes of Sybill Trelawney’s voice reverberated in his mind: 

Either must die at the hand of the other...

A chill slid down his spine. He didn’t even register Cedric’s presence close by his side until Dumbledore spoke again, voice gentle but clear.

“For your safety, Harry,” he said, “we must now destroy it. This copy is enchanted to be heard only by you, but should it fall into the wrong hands—well, the consequences could be dire.”

Harry’s grip on the orb tightened slightly. “But—” he croaked. “I’m not even sure I remember the exact words.”

Dumbledore offered him a small, kind smile. “Not to worry. I remember it word for word. We may discuss it in the privacy of my office once we return, if you wish.”

Harry nodded slowly, throat tight.

“Go on,” Dumbledore said softly. “Just drop it.”

It felt wrong, somehow. Messy. Too easy. But Harry loosened his fingers.

The orb slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor with a sharp crack! The sound echoed like thunder through the long, quiet aisle.

A ghostly Trelawney rose one final time from the shards, her hollow voice repeating the prophecy in full.

And then she vanished into nothing.

Dumbledore flicked his wand with a neat motion, and the glass shards vanished as though they’d never been there at all.

“Come,” he said, turning back toward the rows. “We must make one more appearance before we return.”

Harry followed in a daze. His limbs felt heavy. Cedric walked beside him in silence, eyes flickering toward Harry again and again like he was waiting for him to fall apart.

Harry didn’t meet his gaze.

He didn’t want to see the worry there. Didn’t want to be looked at like that—like a bomb that might go off.

When they arrived at the door, Dumbledore touched the runes with his hand again. The hallway reappeared, and a short walk later, they reentered the lift.

As the iron grate clanged shut behind them and the gears began to hum, Dumbledore said, almost conversationally, “We’ll make a brief stop in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. I thought you both might find it interesting—an introduction to the organizational workings of events like the Quidditch World Cup.”

Cedric gave a polite nod, but said nothing. Harry only blinked, eyes trained on the dial above the lift as it ticked up toward the next floor.

Normally, he would have been intrigued. 

But right now he couldn’t quite feel anything at all.

They stepped off the moving staircase and into the quiet corridor beyond the Headmaster’s office. Dumbledore’s interpretations of the prophecy echoed in his mind. 

Harry didn’t speak. 

He didn’t look at Cedric.

He just stared down the length of the hallway—feeling inexplicably drawn to the left—and bolted.

“Harry?” Cedric called from behind him, but Harry didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. His feet pounded against the floor as he tore down the corridor, heart thundering in his chest, breath burning in his throat.

He didn’t even need to think about where he was going. The castle read the ache in his chest and answered: the empty stretch of wall was patiently waiting for him to pace before it, and rewarded his efforts by shimmering and presenting a tall, elegant door.

Harry threw it open without hesitation.

He stepped inside and was swallowed by golden light.

It was a field.

An endless, sun-drenched field of swaying wheat and rippling wildflowers. The wind was warm and the sky stretched wide above him, unbroken and impossibly blue. Somewhere in the distance, birdsong lilted through the air.

Harry stopped just past the threshold and tilted his face toward the sun and laughed.

It burst from him like a cough, a sob—his whole body shook with it. The next breath came harder, and the one after that even worse. His knees buckled and he hit the dirt hard, gasping against the hurricane of panic in his chest.

It hurt. Everything hurt. That voice—Trelawney’s voice—echoed through his skull like a curse.

Either must die…

A scream tore from his throat, sharp and unrelenting.

When he opened his eyes, the field had shifted.

Ahead of him, a line of crude scarecrows stood tall above the stalks of grain. They were simple-clothed dummies with blank burlap faces. He didn’t know how he knew they were meant for him—he just knew.

Harry ripped off his cloak. Yanked at the knot in his tie until it gave. He threw both carelessly into the dirt.

He raised his wand and shouted, “Expulso!”

The nearest dummy burst apart in a spray of straw and smoke.

“Confringo!”

“Stupefy!”

“Reducto!”

He cast the same four spells over and over until his voice cracked and his wand arm trembled with strain. He struck them down, one by one, rage and fear and shame erupting from him.

He missed more often than he hit. Half the time his spells weren’t strong enough to do more than scorch the burlap. He was fourteen and untrained and supposed to kill Voldemort?

What a joke.

By the time the last scarecrow lay in splinters, he was shaking. Panting. Empty.

And then—

A quiet footstep sounded in the dirt behind him.

Cedric didn’t say anything. He just wrapped his arms around Harry from behind, firm and certain. He buried his face against Harry’s shoulder and held him like he had no intention of letting go.

Harry couldn’t breathe.

Not from panic now, but from the weight of that—of being held without question or demand. Of someone knowing just how badly he needed to fall apart, and being willing to catch the pieces.

His own arms twitched at his sides before rising slowly, fingers fisting into Cedric’s sleeves—holding him in place. The tightness in his chest began to ease, breath by shaky breath.

They stood that way for a long time.

And when Harry finally stilled, when his thoughts quieted just enough to register the press of Cedric’s chest at his back and the soft drag of his breath, he felt it—that shift.

Cedric's chin slid into the curve of Harry’s neck. Then, with infinite gentleness, he pressed a lingering kiss to Harry’s exposed collarbone.

Harry leaned into the touch—heart raw and yearning and somehow still beating.

Harry spent the rest of the week in a haze, only really resurfacing when Hermione or Cedric drew him out with a kind word, a gentle touch. He went through the motions—less haunted than he’d felt that first night, but still… weighty. Still changed.

It barely registered when Friday arrived. And then suddenly, impossibly, he was packing for the Easter holidays—something he’d never done before.

It was a strange experience. His hands hesitated over every item. He didn’t have to cram his trunk full of every possession he owned because he wasn’t leaving forever. He was coming back and his things would be right where he left them.

Still, he packed with care. Folded his better clothes—unsurprisingly all ones he’d taken from the secondhand wardrobe in the Room of Requirement—and tucked them in gently. He added the book Hermione had given him over winter break, feeling rather guilty that he still hadn’t cracked it open. 

And then he sat.

Perched on the edge of his bed in the dim light, heart buzzing like he’d had too much tea. The castle was quieter now, students shuffling toward their beds to sleep. He had already brushed his teeth, donned pajamas and slippers…

But Harry couldn’t imagine falling asleep.

The idea came quickly. Recklessly.

He pulled out the Marauder’s Map.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Sure enough, there was Cedric, just now leaving the Quidditch pitch. Perfect.

Harry threw on his Invisibility Cloak and darted down the Tower stairs, trying his best not to barrel into any unsuspecting students along the way. He reached the Entrance Hall breathless .

And there he was—right on time.

Cedric stepped through the great oak doors, hair still damp from the showers and cheeks slightly pink from wind and exertion.

Harry didn’t think.

He launched forward and grabbed Cedric’s wrist, bodily dragging him behind a tapestry that hid a secret corridor. Cedric barely managed to gasp in surprise before Harry began snogging him relentlessly, releasing all of his pent-up nerves and adrenaline—desperate to feel reassured before morning.

When they broke apart, Cedric looked bemused.

“Well,” he said, voice low and pleased, “I knew it was you, but that doesn’t make this any less weird.”

Harry snorted, lowering his hood. “What gave it away, the Invisibility Cloak or the snogging?”

“Bit of both,” Cedric murmured, then added with a smirk, “You always do that thing with your tongue—”

Harry clamped a hand over Cedric’s mouth, blushing brilliantly. “Don’t describe it!”

Cedric grinned behind Harry’s palm, speech muffled. “Why not? It’s delightful. Intoxicating, even.”

Harry felt as though all the blood in his body had pooled in his face. 

“That might be a new record,” Cedric murmured, voice fond as he touched Harry’s burning face.

“I—this—” He flailed slightly, still half beneath the cloak. “Okay, fine. This was a bit mental.”

“It was also very flattering,” Cedric said smoothly, tilting his head and brushing his fingers against the edge of Harry’s collar. “Drag me into a wall any time.”

Harry rolled his eyes, burning with affection. “I wanted to see you before tomorrow. That’s all.”

Cedric’s teasing softened into something gentler. “You saw me earlier.”

Harry looked away. “Yeah, well. I missed you.”

Cedric touched his cheek, thumb brushing lightly across his skin. “You’ll do fine tomorrow. You’ll charm my parents without even trying.”

Harry made a non-commital noise.

Cedric laughed and leaned in again, mouth brushing Harry’s ear. “That terrified, are you?”

When Harry said nothing Cedric leaned back, eyes catching on Harry’s neck. He looped a finger under the cloak and pulled up the collar of Harry’s pajama shirt.

The fiendish smile that grew on Cedric’s face was enough to make Harry regret every impulsive decision that had led him down to this ambush. “You wore your Invisibility Cloak because you came all the way down from the Tower to find me in your pajamas.” He cocked his head to the side. “What were you going to do if I was in my dormitory? Come and find me?”

“What—? No—!” Harry sputtered, stepping back instinctively.

Cedric matched him step for step, crowding him towards the opposite wall with a glint in his eye. “Awfully presumptuous of you,” he teased.

“Please stop,” Harry moaned, covering his face.

A low chuckle was the only response Cedric gave. Then Harry felt the hood of his cloak being tugged back up and he removed the hands from his face in confusion. “Wha—?”

“C’mon, then,” Cedric said, eyes dancing around the space where Harry’s head must have just disappeared. “I’m knackered.”

Harry gaped for a moment before remembering that Cedric couldn’t see him. “Alright,” he said, voice slightly higher than he cared to admit.

He trailed Cedric on the walk down to the corridor with the kitchens and Hufflepuff dorms. The castle was emptying of students as curfew approached, but there remained a buzz of excitement in the air for the holiday break from classes.

It required more effort not to bump into anyone on the way up to Cedric’s dorm this time, but he arrived without any major incidents. Cedric’s dormmates were milling about—packing and dressing for bed and—

Holy Merlin what was Harry doing.

Last time he had been here, he and Cedric had slept fully clothed. Now Harry was standing here invisible and Cedric was grabbing his pajamas to change right in front of him.

Not wanting to act a right creep, Harry darted over to Cedric’s bed and hopped onto it. The sound caught Cedric’s attention, but Harry turned his face away before he could see his expression.

There was a rustle of fabric, then Cedric setting something down at the foot of the bed, and then the door to the loo closing.

Harry waited in unbearable silence for minutes on end, wishing he could close the bed curtains without drawing the attention of Cedric’s dormmates. When the door cracked back open. Harry lifted himself onto his elbows to look and—

A faint hiss escaped his lips as he flopped back onto the pillow in frustration. Subdued laughter drifted from where Cedric stood, pulling the hangings closed.

After he had climbed into bed beside Harry and cast an array of spells around them for privacy, he laid facing Harry’s invisible form and asked with faux-innocence, “Is something wrong?”

Harry ignored the question, his face burning, and began pulling the blankets up, throwing them pointedly over Cedric’s bare torso.

“It’s much too warm,” Cedric said with an amused smile, pushing the blankets back down to his waist. “Surely you’re sweltering under that cloak.”

Harry made a strangled noise.

Cedric frowned. “This is a lot less fun when I can’t see your face.”

“Serves you right,” Harry muttered darkly.

“Are you going to sleep in that thing just to spite me?”

“Maybe I will.”

“Fine,” Cedric said, a calculating glint in his eye. “I’ll make you a deal—shirt goes on for the whole night if you ditch the cloak—”

“Deal!” Harry spat out, already pulling the cloak off his body and flushed face.

“—And,” Cedric continued, grin widening, “You let me snog you senseless right now.”

A wave of heat ran over Harry’s entire body. He tried not to sound too eager as he stuttered out, “O-okay.”

Cedric immediately pulled Harry towards him, but Harry’s hand snapped up, pressing against Cedric’s chest. “A deal’s a deal,” he said breathlessly, eyes narrowing.

“Oh, Harry,” Cedric said with clear delight. “I didn’t specify when the shirt would go on.”

Harry’s mouth popped open as his heart beat out of his chest. “You—” Harry sputtered, half outraged, half scandalized, “—you prat.”

Cedric laughed, low and self-congratulatory. “You’re the one who agreed before I finished speaking. Consider this a lesson in negotiations.”

He leaned in again, a warm hand sliding up Harry’s back with confident ease, and Harry forgot how to breathe entirely. He still had one palm braced against Cedric’s bare chest, and the heat of his skin was so enticing that Harry just left it there to be crushed between their bodies.

The first brush was soft. Almost reverent. As though Cedric were giving him a last chance to bolt.

But Harry didn’t bolt.

He surged forward, clutching at Cedric’s shoulders, kissing him back with a kind of desperate, clumsy hunger. His entire body was burning—nerves thrumming, thoughts reduced to static—and Cedric just groaned, hands flexing against Harry’s skin like he’d been starving for this.

“You’re so—” Cedric muttered against his lips, breaking the kiss only to dive back in with renewed intensity. “Bloody—unpredictable—you know that?”

Harry would’ve fired back with something quippy if his brain weren’t currently melting. Instead, he tilted his head and bit gently at Cedric’s lower lip, earning a soft, wrecked noise that made Harry’s toes curl under the blanket.

One of Cedric’s hands skimmed up Harry’s side, lifting his shirt ever so slightly, and Harry gasped into the kiss, grip tightening where it had fisted in Cedric’s hair.

It was all-consuming—hot and overwhelming in the best way—and somewhere in the chaos of it all Harry’s nervousness evaporated entirely.

They slowed, breath mingling, lips brushing as they hovered close. Cedric’s eyes were half-lidded, barely visible in the soft moonlight filtering in through the curtains.

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t want to.

“You’re not getting out of wearing that shirt entirely, you know,” he whispered, fighting the part of his brain that was cheering for more snogging, less clothes...

Cedric chuckled, pulling away briefly to grab it from the end of the bed and pull it on. Just the sight of him working the buttons sent Harry’s blood rushing.

He buried his face in his pillow, certain that he was red as a Quaffle. Cedric slotted into place beside him soon after, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and casually draping his arm over Harry’s ribs.

Harry turned to face him. The adrenaline had faded, but the pounding of his heart hadn’t. After a moment, he whispered, “Is it alright that I came down here again?”

Cedric’s eyes fluttered open, sleepy and soft. He didn’t hesitate.

“Harry,” he murmured, voice thick with drowsy affection, “I want you here every night.”

Harry’s stomach flipped.

Cedric reached for his hand under the covers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “So yeah. It’s more than alright.”

Harry didn’t trust his voice enough to answer. He just scooted closer and pressed his forehead to Cedric’s chest, smiling when he felt the steady thump of Cedric’s heart against his cheek.

Chapter Text

Harry

Harry slipped back into the Gryffindor dormitory just after sunrise, shucking the Invisibility Cloak as soon as he closed the door behind him. The room was quiet—mostly. There was a faint snore coming from Dean’s bed and a rustle of Neville turning over. But Harry froze when he caught sight of his own four-poster.

The curtains were drawn shut.

He frowned. He was fairly certain he hadn’t done that. He crept closer, as silently as possible, until a voice behind him made him jump.

“I—er—did that.”

Harry spun around. Ron was sitting cross-legged on his bed with a pile of laundry spread around him—eyes a bit bleary but definitely amused.

“What?” Harry asked, voice pitching a little higher than intended.

Ron shrugged one shoulder. “Figured you’d rather not have everyone notice you… didn’t sleep here.”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. Blushed furiously.

“Not that I care where you sleep, mate,” Ron added quickly, ears going a little pink. “But Dean thinks you were off sneaking into the kitchens for a midnight snack and I figured you might prefer that…”

“Yeah,” Harry croaked. “Yeah, that’s—better.”

Ron merely grinned, shaking with silent laughter.

Harry ducked his head, busying himself by pulling out clothes for the train ride, but his voice was sincere when he said, “Thanks, Ron. Really.”

Ron waved him off like it was no big deal, but Harry caught the flicker of relief in his expression. They still weren’t back to normal—but this small action felt like a substantial step in that direction. 

Harry hovered near the edge of the Hogsmeade platform, shifting from foot to foot as students bustled around him. Trunks scraped against the ground, owls hooted irritably from their cages, and the scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express loomed, billowing pale smoke into the crisp morning air.

His hands were cold despite the mild spring weather, and every glance toward the train seemed to make the nerves in his stomach twist a little tighter.

Then a tap on his shoulder made him spin—and suddenly he was face-to-face with Cedric.

The smile it brought to Harry’s face was instantaneous.

“Good morning,” Cedric said warmly, leaning in to kiss Harry on the cheek. Then, just beside his ear, he murmured, “Again.”

Harry flushed.

Cedric smiled, clearly pleased with himself. “Come on,” he said, lacing their fingers together. “There are a few people I’d like you to meet.”

Harry winced, nervous for an entirely new reason now. “Friends?”

“Yeah—some other sixth years,” Cedric confirmed. “You’ll like them.”

He tugged gently and Harry followed him down the train, peering through compartment windows. It wasn’t until they reached one near the middle that Cedric knocked and slid open the door with a casual, “Morning.”

Inside, four students looked up from a game of Exploding Snap. They greeted Cedric with cheerful waves and some teasing, and when he stepped aside to reveal Harry, the volume dropped just slightly.

“This,” Cedric said, “is Harry. Please try not to traumatize him.”

Harry gave a stiff wave. “Hi.”

The girl nearest to the window gave him a wide, curious smile and scooted over. “Plenty of room, come sit.”

The rest of the introductions tumbled out as Harry settled onto the bench beside Cedric: the girl with the warm smile was Nora Greenfield, a Hufflepuff with quick hands and even quicker wit. Next to her was Cassian Muldoon, a Ravenclaw with broad shoulders and a constant glint of calculation in his eye. Across from them sat Elsie Moon, who was quite pretty but seemed unable to speak in front of Harry, and Travis Bell, who Harry recognized from Cedric’s dorm as the one who had called Harry “talented and bloody fit” (not realizing that Harry was standing, invisible, a metre away).

“So,” Elsie said, finally speaking up—her voice betraying a slight tremor of nervousness. “You’re... really dating Cedric?”

“You make me sound like a prize,” Cedric said, smirking. 

Elsie rolled her eyes, muttering, “Oh do get over yourself, Blondie.”

Harry burst into laughter, which had the unfortunate effect of making Elsie blush and clam up again.

“I’m pretty sure Harry would be the prize in this scenario,” Cassian teased. “After all, Cedric’s been mooning over him for the entire year.”

Travis snickered. “Kept sighing and staring out windows and everything.”

“I did not!” Cedric protested.

“You did,” said Travis and Cassian in unison.

Harry stared at Cedric, who was now slightly pink-cheeked. It made Harry’s stomach flutter and his lips turn up at the edges.

“So, Harry,” Nora said, deftly changing the topic. “You grew up in the Muggle world, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hogwarts was... a bit of a shock.”

Cassian leaned forward, clearly intrigued. “Wait, really? I just assumed you grew up with wizards.”

Harry froze for half a second. “No, I—uh—” He cleared his throat. “Lived with relatives. Non-magical ones.”

Cedric shifted just slightly beside him, his hand resting lightly on Harry’s lower back. He rubbed slow, calming circles through the fabric of Harry’s jumper—subtle enough no one else would notice, grounding enough that Harry immediately latched onto the sensation and let his shoulders drop a little.

“I’m muggle-born, so I can relate,” Nora said, voice breezy. “When my letter came, I thought it was a prank. Then McGonagall turned into a cat in front of me and my parents. That helped sell it.”

Harry snorted. 

“Anyway,” Nora said, nudging Harry’s knee with hers. “What d’you think is the best part of magical society? Something that the Muggles just can’t compete with.”

“Flying. No question.”

“Oh, agreed,” Nora said, smile going wistful. “Though I wouldn’t mind a telly. Or, you know, lightbulbs.”

Cedric smiled at that. “I tried to explain the concept of Muggle lights to my mum once. She still thinks they’re some sort of Muggle magic.”

“Aren’t they?” Cassian asked, deadpan. “A Lumos that can be cast without a wand? Blasphemy.”

Everyone laughed, and Harry found himself relaxing into the warmth of the group. Cedric’s touch remained steady at his back and, for the first time in ages, he didn’t feel like the center of anything—just a teenager on a train with people who didn’t expect him to be anything more than himself.

After a few more minutes of easy chatter, Cedric nudged Harry gently with his elbow. “Hey,” he murmured, “want to try some Occlumency meditation? It would pass some time.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Now?”

“C’mon,” Cedric said softly. “You need to practice.”

“Fine,” Harry muttered, “but don’t blame me when I fall asleep and drool on you.”

Cedric smirked and guided Harry to turn sideways and sit cross-legged facing him. He leaned forward, lips brushing Harry’s temple. “Don’t worry,” Cedric whispered, “I’ll wake you up before you drool.”

Harry fought the heat creeping up his neck. “Brilliant,” he muttered darkly.

“Don’t sound so excited,” Cedric said, grinning. “Now close your eyes.”

They settled, hands clasped, as the others returned to their card game. Harry focused on his breathing, on Cedric’s thumb brushing a constant pattern against his knuckles. He visualized a mirror-smooth lake with a slow ripple slowly disturbing the surface.

The train rumbled gently beneath them, and Harry let himself drift into stillness.

At first, it was just the hum of the train and Cedric’s hand warm against his.

Then it was dark, velvet-black suffocation.

Harry’s tongue flicked out, tasting the air.

Stone walls rose around him—damp and uneven, glistening with moisture. The scent was thick with rot and rusted metal. His eyes—low to the ground—adjusted to the gloom with ease. Movement ahead drew his focus.

A long, worn table stretched through the center of the chamber, surrounded by shadows. Two men sat at it. The first was rigid, almost reverent. The second shifted with barely-contained nervous energy. Between them, a tall-backed chair faced the far wall, swathed in shadow and draped in thin silks.

From that chair came a sound.

A laugh—soft and brittle. High and too light, like a mimicry of a child.

The nervous man twitched at the sound. Harry could taste the fear curling off of him like steam.

“You’ve done well, Bartemius,” came the voice from the chair. “Truly. You have exceeded my expectations.”

The man to the left bowed his head. He was gaunt, his expression composed and almost smug. His voice, when he spoke, slithered through the air with calculated ease.

“Your faith honors me, my Lord. I admit, the girl nearly proved troublesome... but it matters not, now.”

A breath—a papery inhale from the chair.

“Indeed,” the voice whispered, pleased. “We are free to resume... as planned.”

Harry moved forward—silent, smooth. Beneath the table, one man’s foot bounced, too fast to be steady. The other was still.

And then—

The center chair turned.

What sat in it was not a man. Not at all.

A twisted infant form, pale, waxy, and swaddled in dark silks, sat before Harry. Eyes like fresh blood. Skin decomposing and hanging from bone.

“Curious,” the thing said. It looked past the others… stared directly into Harry’s eyes…

And smiled.

Harry felt something sharp and slick lance through his mind, and he screamed in pain.

When he jolted back to himself, Cedric’s hand was gripping his shoulder tightly and four pairs of alarmed eyes were staring at him. Cedric was saying his name over and over.

Harry blinked, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The sunlight through the train window was too bright. The warmth of Cedric’s hand was too much.

He sat forward, elbows on knees, willing his heartbeat to slow.

He knew in his gut that that hadn’t been a dream.

That Voldemort had seen him watching.

“You just fell asleep,” Cedric said quietly, still crouched in front of him. “Had a nightmare.”

But something about his voice wasn’t quite right—it was too even. Too careful.

Harry nodded mutely, unable to meet his eyes.

“C’mon,” Cedric added, standing and tugging gently at Harry’s wrist. “Let’s go walk the train. Bit of… fresh air.”

Harry was only vaguely aware of the others murmuring behind them—asking if they needed anything—and then Cedric’s hand found his, their fingers intertwining with a steadiness that made Harry feel both anchored and fragile at once.

They walked the narrow corridor in silence, Harry’s shoulder brushing the glass occasionally, until Cedric found an unoccupied loo and nudged the door open.

The second they were inside and the latch clicked, Cedric turned to face him, eyes sharp with concern. “Harry—what was that back there?”

Harry opened his mouth, trying to form words, but then a wave of nausea hit him. He shoved past Cedric and collapsed to his knees, vomiting into the toilet.

There was the quiet sound of conjuration, and then a cool cloth was pressed into Harry’s hand.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered hoarsely. He was still shaking. He used the cloth to wipe his mouth, then forced himself upright and stumbled to the sink. He rinsed, spat, and finally caught his reflection in the mirror.

He looked awful. Skin pale as parchment and lips tinged bluish-purple. 

Behind him, Cedric hovered, hand resting on his back with quiet steadiness.

“Can I cast a diagnostic?” Cedric asked gently.

Harry nodded absently. A moment later, a faint glow emitted from Cedric’s wand, pulsing over his skin. Cedric frowned.

“You’re running a fever,” he said softly. “And you’re in shock.”

“Cheers,” Harry muttered darkly.

Cedric moved to stand in front of him, fingers catching Harry’s chin and lifting it. His amber eyes searched Harry’s face, serious now. “Tell me what’s going on. That wasn’t just a nightmare.”

Harry flinched at the command, an inexplicable anger and self-loathing boiling up in him as he shook Cedric off. “No thanks,” he said sharply. “You don’t need another reason to think I’m a freak.”

At that, Cedric closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. When he opened them, the heat in his gaze made Harry falter.

“I don’t think you’re a freak,” Cedric said, voice low but fierce. “The strange things that happen to you don’t define you. Your actions do. You’re kind. You’re clever. You’re braver than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Harry tried to scoff, but Cedric took his face with both hands, forcing their eyes to meet as he continued with determination, “I love you, Harry. Not because of what’s happened to you. Not despite it either. Just… because you’re you.”

Harry’s mind blanked at what Cedric had just said—so casually as though it were obvious. 

Cedric conjured a fresh cloth, cool and damp, and gently dabbed at Harry’s face, wiping away the sweat at his hairline, the dampness under his eyes.

“I’m sorry I got short with you,” Harry murmured finally, shame coiling in his gut. “You’re right—it wasn’t just a nightmare. It was… I think it was a vision. I’ve had them before, but this one was different. Stronger.”

Cedric stilled only briefly before resuming the gentle blotting of Harry’s skin. 

“Voldemort,” Harry continued, whispering unintentionally. “He was with two others. One of them was Crouch Junior. The other one… I think it was Wormtail. And then… then there was this thing in a chair. It was like a dead toddler’s body with Voldemort inside.” Harry swallowed against a wave of rising bile. “And he looked at me. Like he knew I was watching.” He closed his eyes, exhaling roughly. “And he smiled.”

The silence that followed was thick and charged.

Cedric’s free hand cradled Harry’s face. “We’ll tell Dumbledore,” he said quietly. “We can owl him as soon as we get to the house. He’ll… he’ll know what it means.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah. Alright.”

But as soon as the words left his mouth, he hesitated. His fingers tightened around Cedric’s.

“Just—don’t tell your parents. Please,” Harry begged. His eyes shifted to the floor. “I don’t want them to know about the vision of Voldemort. It’s not that I don’t trust them, it’s just… I want them to like me—I don’t want them to think I’m—I’m—”

He broke off. The word wrong hovered unspoken between them.

Cedric gently set aside the cloth. “They won’t hear a word of it from me,” he said softly. “I promise.” He leaned forward to press a kiss to Harry’s cheek. Then the other. Then his nose and forehead and every inch of his face until Harry was laughing at the ridiculousness.

“I see that you’re avoiding my mouth.”

“Yes, well,” Cedric said through a smile of his own, “you did vomit not five minutes ago.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Sorry you had to see that.”

Cedric merely shrugged. “I’ll see worse if I follow through and become a Healer.”

“You’d make a brilliant Healer,” Harry said, still smiling and staring at Cedric with something like awe; he was all amber eyes and pale lashes and plush, pink lips…

“That compliment would mean a lot more if you weren’t looking at me like you want to eat me.”

There was clear satisfaction on Cedric’s face as heat bloomed across Harry’s cheeks.

Cedric vanished the cloth and ran his fingers through Harry’s fringe. “I think there’s nothing to do except let you get some rest. C’mon.”

Harry let himself be led out of the loo. A Ravenclaw girl that Harry thought he vaguely recognized gaped when they exited, and Harry barely spared a thought as to how it must look. Cedric pulled him to the back of the train, stopping only once he found an empty compartment. 

He positioned Harry as though he were a doll, making him lie down completely and settling his head in Cedric’s lap. Harry felt flushed from head to toe—and entirely incapable of falling asleep—until Cedric began running his fingers through Harry’s hair soothingly. 

Between the featherlight caresses and rumble of the train, Harry drifted into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

As the train screeched to a stop at Platform 9¾, steam billowed through the open doors and the low murmur of conversation turned into a rising wave of chatter and laughter. Students began spilling out onto the platform and waving to their families. A cacophony of trunks scraping cobblestone, angry pets hooting and yowling, and heartfelt farewells assaulted them from all directions.

Harry stepped down just behind Cedric, taking in the crowd. His eyes instinctively landed on a familiar cluster of red hair.

Mrs. Weasley was already fussing over Ginny and Ron, pulling them both into tight, motherly hugs. Then, to Harry’s surprise, she turned and embraced Neville with the same warmth, pressing a kiss to his temple and muttering something that made the boy blush.

Harry felt a sharp, unwelcome twist in his gut.

He looked away quickly, the sting of jealousy crawling up his spine. Of course Neville gets a hug. Of course someone’s waiting for him.

Cedric must have noticed. A warm hand slid up to cradle the back of Harry’s head as Cedric leaned in and kissed his temple. “C’mon,” he murmured, and steered him gently through the crowd.

Further down the platform, two well-dressed figures stood waiting: Amos Diggory, tall and sturdy in a trim traveling cloak, and a familiar, striking woman whose presence was somehow both commanding and graceful. She wore slate-blue robes with silvery embroidery and carried herself like a golden-haired queen.

Annette Diggory’s face lit up as she spotted them. “Darling!” she called, and Cedric broke into a smile and quickened his pace.

Annette embraced her son, then pulled back to cup his cheeks. “You look exhausted,” she chided, though her eyes sparkled with affection.

Amos stepped forward with a broad, fatherly grin and clapped Cedric on the back. “Well done again, my boy. The whole office is still talking about that Second Task score of yours—top points!”

Then Annette’s gaze shifted to Harry. Her sharp eyes softened immediately. “Harry,” she said warmly, and surprised him by pulling him into a hug. “We’re so pleased you’re here.”

Amos’ expression cooled a fraction—just enough for Harry to notice—but then a subtle tightening of Annette’s grip on her husband’s arm made him cough and offer his hand. “Welcome, Harry. Glad you could join us for the holiday.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry mumbled, shaking his hand.

“Right,” Cedric said quickly, taking Harry’s trunk handle and starting toward the barrier. “We always apparate from the alley.”

Outside the station, they turned down a quiet side street lined with stone walls and empty flower boxes. At the end of the lane, Cedric set down the trunks with a thud.

“I’ve got my test next month,” he said, sounding proud. “So—legally—I still have to side-along. Dad can take me. Mum, you’ll take Harry?”

Annette offered Harry her arm. “Hold on tight, dear. First time is never pleasant.”

Harry nodded, his throat suddenly dry. He barely had time to brace before the world spun out from under him. The pressure squeezed him on all sides, like being dragged through a rubber tube that was several sizes too small.

They landed with a crack on a country lane.

Harry staggered sideways, clutching his stomach. “Oh Merlin.”

Annette patted his back briskly. “Perfectly normal. The first few dozen times are the worst.”

He looked up—and gaped.

There was a creamy white farmhouse before them with slate roofing and ivy curling up the sides. The shutters were a sharp navy blue. In the distance, rows upon rows of apple trees stretched out in waves. A tidy garden wound around the front, and the whole place smelled faintly of lavender and cider.

“Welcome to Ottery Orchard,” Cedric said from behind him.

Harry smiled at the sight. “It’s beautiful.”

Cedric hummed. “I hope you like apples.” 

Harry blushed faintly—his mind jumping to the taste of hot spiced cider and first kisses.

“C’mon. I’ll give you the tour before dinner.”

Inside, the house was even more inviting—clean and bright but lived-in, with handwoven rugs and wizarding paintings and photographs that gossiped as they passed by. The entryway opened to a warm sitting room, and through the windows, Harry could see sunlight falling across a table already set for dinner.

Cedric leaned in conspiratorially. “Mum set up the good guest room for you.”

“There’s a bad one?” Harry asked.

“Oh yes. No windows. Possibly haunted.”

Harry snorted.

Cedric led him up a set of stairs, fingers steadfastly entwined with Harry’s the whole way. He then led Harry down the hallway, boots soft on the polished floorboards. “This guest room is also conveniently located beside my bedroom,” he said, before winking and adding in a murmur, “but don’t get any ideas.”

Harry nearly tripped over the floor runner. “I wouldn’t!”

Cedric shot him a look over his shoulder. “Oh, you would,” he said—his voice was low and quiet—his amber eyes were glittering. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten last night.”

Harry felt heat burn all the way to the tip of his nose and mumbled something unintelligible, which only made Cedric laugh harder as he pushed open a wide oak door.

“Ta-da.”

Harry stepped in—and stopped short.

The room was flooded with natural light, windows stretching nearly floor to ceiling on one side, the curtains drawn back with ribbons in rich gold and plum. The bed was perfectly made, its quilt embroidered with a subtle pattern of snitches and apple blossoms. A vase of fresh-cut flowers that Harry couldn’t name sat on the desk beside a neatly folded towel and a stack of parchment and quills.

“Whoa,” Harry breathed. “This is…”

“I know,” Cedric said with mock embarrassment. “Scandalously cozy.”

Harry turned, eyebrows raised.

Cedric grinned. “Mum said something in her last letter about making it ‘more homey’ for you. I’m fairly certain that she charmed the windows to let in extra light. And making the bed with that quilt was definitely intentional—that’s my old one from when I was little.”

Harry stepped toward the bed and touched the embroidery. “Did she make this?”

“Mm-hm. When I was about eight. She used to do lots of little patterns—quidditch things, animals, family crests. Said it was a way to keep her magic ‘soft.’” Cedric leaned against the doorframe, smiling faintly. “She wanted to do a whole line of charm-stitched quilts for St. Mungo’s long-term patients once, but never had time with all her mediwitch rotations. I think she’s saving the idea for retirement, now.”

Harry looked back at the neat desk, the flowers, the clean lines of the room. “It’s really… er… nice,” he said, unable to express in words that it was, by far, the nicest bedroom he had ever stayed in.

Cedric gave a dimpled smile, his eyes fond. “Maybe work on that compliment before you thank my mum at dinner.”

The silence stretched—but it was peaceful, not awkward—and Harry sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, tracing snitches with his fingertip. He glanced up. “So... which one’s your room?”

Cedric pointed to the wall behind him. “Through there.” Then he leaned in and stage-whispered, “And yes, it creaks when you open the door. So if you do get any ideas—”

“I won’t,” Harry hissed, utterly mortified at the idea of being caught out by Cedric’s parents.

Cedric laughed again, the sound easy and buoyant. “Welcome to Ottery Orchard,” he said, stepping back as though to leave. “You’ve got five minutes to freshen up before dinner…” he rolled his eyes at the blank look on Harry’s face, “...you know, since you threw up and ran a fever on the train?”

“Oh—right—” Harry jumped to his feet and heard Cedric’s chuckle fade down the hall.

He quickly brushed his teeth twice and washed his face until his cheeks were pink from the effort. He changed into a clean jumper and jeans—both from the Room of Requirement’s secondhand closet—and blinked at himself in the mirror. His skin still looked a little pale, but it was no longer that sickly grey-purple from the train. He wished, not for the first time, that he still had his old glasses to hide behind. Without them, his face looked strangely vulnerable. 

A knock came at the door, and before he could respond, Cedric let himself in.

He took one look at Harry and immediately pulled him into an embrace. “You look handsome,” he said warmly, brushing a kiss to Harry’s temple.

Harry groaned. “Please don’t make me blush fifty times in front of your parents.”

Cedric grinned, wicked and unrepentant. “No promises. You’re an easy mark—it’s irresistible.”

“After I die because all of the blood in my body has pooled in my face you’ll have no one to blame but yourself,” Harry muttered.

“Don’t be such a pessimist,” Cedric admonished cheerfully, slinging an arm around Harry’s waist as they walked. “You’ve already survived a dragon—I think you’ll survive dinner.”

The dining room was awash with golden light. Annette was at the sideboard, directing a half-dozen dishes to fly into place with efficient flicks of her wand.

“Harry, dear,” she said as they entered, “I hope you like roast chicken. I roasted it with lemon and thyme, and the vegetables are from the garden.”

“That sounds brilliant,” Harry said quickly, taking the seat Cedric gestured to beside him. His fingers fidgeted in his lap until Cedric casually bumped their knees together under the table. Harry shot him a grateful glance.

Amos joined a moment later, nodding politely at Harry. “Good evening, lad.”

“Evening, Mr. Diggory,” Harry said.

Dinner began with comfortable chatter. Annette launched into a story about her friend and colleague, Noreen Hudgins, who’d just given birth to her second child.

“She used to babysit Cedric when he was just a tot,” Annette said with a fond smile. “Lived just over the hill from the Lovegoods.”

Harry blinked. “Wait—the Lovegoods? Like Luna Lovegood?”

Annette looked pleased. “That’s right. You know Luna?”

“Yeah,” Harry said with a wry smile. “Through my friend Hermione.”

Amos looked up from his potatoes. “The girl Cedric helped save in the lake?”

Harry winced, but nodded. Cedric rolled his eyes at his father. “Perhaps we don’t bring up Harry’s best friend nearly drowning during dinner.”

Amos blustered. “Well, it all turned out fine in the end. Full marks and all.”

“Mm-hm,” Cedric hummed, refilling Harry’s goblet with pumpkin juice.

The conversation drifted from there. At one point, Annette turned to her son. “So—how is shadowing Poppy Pomfrey going?”

Harry perked up, genuinely curious as well.

Cedric, to Harry’s surprise, turned slightly pink. “It’s… it’s going well. Our most interesting patient was probably Harry, actually, a few months back.”

Harry tilted his head. “When?”

Cedric gave him a look. “When you shattered your arm.”

“Oh. Right.” He flushed. “Sorry about that.”

Annette gave a musical laugh. “You’re like a magnet for injuries, aren’t you?”

“You’ve no idea,” Cedric mumbled, glancing at Harry fondly.

After dessert—blackberry crumble with cream—Cedric stood. “Harry and I can handle the cleanup.”

Annette waved a hand. “Don’t be silly. It’ll take me two minutes with a wand.”

Cedric raised his eyebrows. “Mum. I’m allowed to do magic outside school now.”

“Oh,” Annette blinked. “Right. That will take some getting used to.”

Cedric elbowed Harry. “And technically, he’s off the Trace, too.”

That made both Diggory parents pause.

“Technical reasons,” Harry said weakly, avoiding eye contact. “Something about how the Goblet of Fire forced me into the magical contract.”

Amos looked like he wanted to ask more, but Annette clapped her hands. “Well then! Have at it, boys!”

They set to work, Cedric patiently walking Harry through a series of household charms he’d never had reason to learn before now—everything from drying dishes to reorganizing the cutlery drawer.

“You’ve got a solid hand,” Cedric said, watching Harry levitate a stack of plates into the cupboard. “Bit of a chaotic aura, though.”

“Is that a real thing?” Harry asked with a frown.

“Not at all,” Cedric said with a grin. “But it sounds fitting for you, doesn’t it?”

Harry rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help smiling.

As Harry levitated the last stack of bowls into the cupboard, he felt strong arms wrap around his waist from behind—and he yelped.

“You nearly made me shatter half the kitchen!” he hissed.

“I waited until the dishes were settled,” Cedric murmured into his neck, utterly unrepentant.

Harry rolled his eyes and leaned back into his chest… then tensed, glancing toward the doorway. “Aren’t you worried your parents will… you know… see?”

Cedric’s grin pressed against Harry’s neck. “I’m not worried.” He turned Harry gently to face him, an affectionate smile playing at his lips. “But if it makes you uncomfortable…”

Harry hesitated, then gave a sheepish nod.

Cedric tilted his head toward the rear of the house. “C’mon, then. Walk with me.”

They stepped out into the late-evening glow of the garden. A cobblestone path wound between raised beds of herbs and vegetables, everything meticulously pruned and mulched. Cedric led Harry past a gurgling water barrel and out a small gate into the orchard rows beyond.

The trees stood in neat lines, their branches full of tiny blooms and long fingers stretching toward the amber sky. 

“Dad was the first in the family to not take an interest in the orchard,” Cedric said as they walked. “So now we contract it out to the MacCready family. They do almost all of the harvesting and selling. Mum still uses some of the apples for her own baking, though.”

Harry looked around at the winding rows of trees, sunlight catching on the pink blossoms. “Do you think you’d ever want to take it on?”

Cedric shrugged. “Not really. But… it does seem peaceful, doesn’t it?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Like the kind of place where nothing bad ever happens.”

They wandered deeper, the sunlight thinning into twilight. The air cooled, and Harry shivered in his thin jumper. Without a word, Cedric pulled him close, wrapping his arms tightly around Harry and rubbing his back to warm him.

Harry leaned into the warmth, resting his chin on Cedric’s shoulder.

Then, in a quiet voice, Cedric said, “Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

Harry’s throat tightened unexpectedly. He swallowed. “Me too.”

They stood like that for a long moment. There was only the rustle of the orchard around them.

Then Cedric pulled back just enough to tilt Harry’s face up, eyes searching his. The kiss that followed was slow and soft and unhurried. The kind of kiss that said: I like you here. I want you here.

Harry’s heart stuttered. Looking up at Cedric, barely visible in the darkening orchard, he felt that now-familiar swoop in his chest and wondered...

Cedric had said he loved Harry on the train. So casually. And Harry hadn’t said it back—not because he didn’t feel something, but because the words… scared him. Because he didn’t know how to trust the feeling, or name it, or act on it.

But right now… he wanted to try.

“I love you,” he said, so softly it might have been a breath—that it was likely inaudible to anyone but himself.

His cheeks flamed, panic sweeping in like cold water. Coward, he thought, staring determinedly at the buttons on Cedric’s shirt. 

Cedric swept his lips against the blush on Harry’s cheek. “I heard you,” he whispered warmly. 

Harry’s throat went tight. His eyes flicked up to Cedric’s face—so open and steady and warm—and something inside him rose like a tide. He forced his voice to be louder, looking at Cedric’s amber eyes.

“I love—I love—” the word kept sticking like treacle, “—I—Merlin, I don’t know what’s wrong with me—!”

His breath caught, and he dropped his gaze, awash in shame. “I feel it,” he muttered, almost desperately. “But I’ve never said it, and—and all I can think is what if I’m doing it wrong—if I’m not saying it right—”

Cedric reached up and gently cupped Harry’s jaw, tilting his face back toward him. He didn’t look startled, or disappointed. He didn’t look anything but fond.

“There’s no rush,” Cedric said softly. “Not with this. Not with us.”

Harry’s shoulders eased, the knot in his chest loosening just a little.

“Okay,” he said, voice small. “Okay.”

Cedric kissed him tenderly. “But, for the record,” he added with a smile, “you were saying it just fine.”

Harry beamed—relief and happiness bubbling up in him at the praise—and pulled Cedric back into another kiss. He let his hands curl into Cedric’s jumper, pouring everything unspoken into the press of their mouths. Cedric responded in kind, steady and sure, his arms wrapping warmly around Harry’s back.

The orchard around them swayed gently in the breeze. All Harry could feel was the rhythm of Cedric’s breath and the reassuring weight of his hands. It wasn’t enough—not nearly—and before Harry quite realized it, he’d taken a step forward into Cedric’s space, and Cedric backed up with a quiet laugh—

And then they both stumbled over an uneven patch of grass and went down in a heap.

Harry landed half on top of Cedric, breathless with surprise. He burst into laughter, and Cedric’s chest shook with his own, the two of them tangled together on a patch of soft clover beneath the apple trees.

“You alright?” Cedric managed between laughs.

“Better now,” Harry said, grinning down at him.

Cedric rolled them over with a huff, and now Harry was flat on his back in the grass, his jumper rucked up slightly. Cedric kissed him again—messy, warm, and full of laughter muffled between their mouths.

Time blurred. The sun dipped lower, casting long golden slants between the trees. At some point, Harry ended up lying beside Cedric, head tucked against his shoulder, one of Cedric’s hands tracing idle lines along his spine. The air was cool, but Harry didn’t feel it.

Eventually, Cedric murmured, “You’ve got grass in your hair.”

Harry hummed happily, sleepily. “Worth it.”

“You look completely disheveled.”

“So do you.”

“I thought you didn’t want my parents to be clued in to our snogging?” Cedric chuckled.

Harry snapped upright, eyes wide as he took in the grass and dirt stains...

“Scourgify,” Cedric cast, a hint of suppressed laughter in his voice. The worst of the mess disappeared. “There. Good as new.”

Harry grumbled at him and Cedric just threw back his head with bright laughter.

Chapter Text

Hermione 

When Theo stopped Seeing the graveyard entirely, Hermione knew they needed more contingencies.

Essence of dittany, blood replenisher, and invigoration draught always on her person from now on.

Emergency portkeys to get away.

A locator spell to get to Harry.  

All because Barty Crouch Junior had surprised her and Theo once before. He had cornered Hermione and nearly succeeded in killing her. And Theo hadn’t Seen even a flicker of it.

Now the graveyard—the very thing they'd been building their plans around—had vanished from his visions completely.

Which meant Crouch Junior had figured them out. And was hiding himself and Voldemort from the Sight.

How much would they change, just to outmaneuver her? How much did Crouch Junior assume she already knew?

There were a million questions and no real answers, only a low-grade panic buzzing constantly in the back of her mind. At some point, she stopped sleeping.

Theo met her nightly in the Restricted Section, both of them elbow-deep in books and parchment, researching (highly illegal) locator spells they could affix to Harry—each with drawbacks and risks they couldn’t afford.

McGonagall pulled her aside after class one afternoon. Her tone was quiet but firm—Hermione’s grades were slipping, her essays missing, and, if she didn’t catch up, detentions would follow.

McGonagall’s eyes were kind and worried. And that heartfelt concern was almost worse, because it made Hermione want to scream. She didn’t need to be forced into doing her homework! She needed to spend every waking moment ensuring that Harry lived—that Cedric lived—that—

“Hermione.”

Theo was brushing her hair away from her face. She had slumped over a book and fallen asleep.

Theo’s voice was soft, but urgent. “Dumbledore’s outside the entry.”

She blinked at him, her neck aching, her cheek half-glued to the parchment pages. “What?”

Theo offered a hand to help her up. “Headmaster. Now.”

Hermione rubbed at her eyes and let herself be hauled to her feet, her mind still foggy from sleep. She barely had time to fix her hair before the gate to the Restricted Section creaked open.

Dumbledore stepped inside, his silhouette outlined by the lantern glow behind him. “Ah,” he said, eyes twinkling. “How fortuitous. I’d hoped to find you here.”

He said it as if Hermione and Theo were supposed to be combing through borderline-illegal spellbooks at midnight.

Too tired to argue, Hermione merely stepped aside as Dumbledore moved past her in his typical enigmatic manner.

“I came across something the other day,” he said, adjusting his half-moon spectacles and scanning the shelves. “I think you might find it relevant.”

He plucked a faded green volume from a high shelf— Esoteric Potions of the Master’s Path —and opened it to a page already marked.

Hermione leaned in, her eyebrows pulling together as she read.

The Draught of Distant Proximity.

A magically binding potion shared between two individuals. Once consumed, it created a permanent tether—a faint but unbreakable link that could cross any distance. With focus, either party could Apparate to the other’s location. Not a spell cast upon a body. Not an enchanted piece of jewelry. A bond.

Her stomach twisted. “This is…” she searched for the right word, “...invasive.”

“And irreversible,” Theo added, frowning.

Dumbledore gave a slow nod. “Indeed. And undetectable as well as irremovable.”

Hermione looked back down at the passage. The potion didn’t require blood, but it did require awareness of both parties. Harry would have to agree to the bond, and willingly forge it with Hermione.

It was terribly invasive and immutable. Which undoubtedly meant that Dumbledore had already considered—and discarded—all other options.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice low.

He inclined his head, then turned to go.

“Professor,” Hermione called after him, her tone resigned. “You wouldn’t happen to know a thing or two about making portkeys, would you?”

Dumbledore paused at the threshold. A ghost of a smile on his lips. “How may I help, Hermione?”

And with that, Hermione swallowed her pride and welcomed the Headmaster’s assistance. 

And everything became infinitely easier.

The Room of Requirement looked as it had for the past three weeks—a battered dueling hall with bookshelf-lined walls and protective wards shimmering faintly across the floor. A training dummy in one corner stood charred and slightly deformed. Scorch marks still smoked from where Cedric had just blasted it with a powerful Confringo .

Harry adjusted his grip on his wand, his wild locks plastered to his forehead. Across from him, Cedric was panting, sweat beading at his brow. Theo leaned lazily against a bookshelf, while Hermione consulted a scroll of notes longer than her arm.

“Alright,” she said crisply, tapping the list with her quill. “You’ve both improved the strength of your Shield Charms, and Harry’s almost proficient with Silencio and Incarcerous . Next up—”

“Let me guess,” Harry muttered, “I have to battle another dragon?”

Hermione didn’t even blink. “No, you need to fight off an Acromantula.”

Harry’s wand-hand drooped. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Did I hear that right?” Cedric asked, straightening.

“You did,” Hermione said calmly, already flipping through a bestiary. “They’ll be in the maze.”

“You… Saw this?” Cedric asked incredulously, looking at Theo.

Theo shrugged, saying aloofly, “No. But I didn’t not See it, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t,” Cedric said flatly.

Hermione was undeterred. “Strike the eyes if you can. Otherwise, aim between the joints. You’ll want to use fire but also concussive force, if possible. Their outer shells are—”

“Really?” Harry said faintly. “You know how to fight a giant spider?”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “It’s called research, Harry.”

They practiced spell after spell until sweat soaked through the back of Harry’s shirt and Theo cast a Cooling Charm at him in disgust. It was only then—when they were all sprawled on conjured cushions and sharing Pumpkin Fizz—that Hermione brought up the potion.

“We’ll need to brew it soon,” she said, quietly but firmly. “The potion.”

Harry frowned. “I still don’t understand how that will help with the maze…”

“It’s not for the maze, Harry,” Hermione said, tone flat.

He looked at her, then at Theo, then back. “Wait. So it’s not for the—wait. Why do I need a—what does it even do?”

“It tethers your location to mine,” Hermione said, eyes averted. “If you—er—go missing—”

Harry’s jaw dropped.

“...It’ll let me get to you,” she finished. “Instantly.”

Harry let out a long breath, the realization settling in. “Oh.”

“You said it tethers you and Harry?” Cedric asked suspiciously. “What exactly does that mean?”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek and shrugged. “It creates a bond.”

Cedric suddenly looked murderous. “And were you planning on explaining what that means to Harry?”

Harry looked between them, his face growing concerned. “What’s wrong?”

Cedric’s burning, amber eyes didn’t leave Hermione’s as he answered Harry, his voice low and deathly calm. “It’s not just a locator spell, Harry. Bonds—magical bonds—are usually reserved for major things. Like marriage.”

Harry turned very pink. “Oh.”

“It’s not a marriage bond,” Hermione snapped, glaring at Cedric. “And it won’t interfere with future bonds of that type—it’s not romantic at all. You’re making a bigger deal out of it than it is!”

“Am I?” Cedric challenged. “So you’re saying that after the danger is passed you’ll brew another potion and dissolve the bond, just like that?”

Hermione’s jaw jutted out as she held Cedric’s glare. “No. It would be permanent. But Harry and I can make a Vow to never utilize the bond again, if we want to render it moot in the future.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” Cedric muttered.

Harry’s eyes ping-ponged between Cedric and Hermione with discomfort. 

Theo sneered. “Honestly, Diggory. You think I’d suggest my girlfriend make an irreversible bond to Potter if it weren’t absolutely necessary? I promise I’ll be terribly sorry if it turns out not to be.”

“Your bedside manner is inspiring,” Cedric said darkly.

Theo sipped his Pumpkin Fizz. “I aim to soothe.”

“Fine,” Cedric snapped, straightening suddenly. His gaze locked onto Hermione with a sharpness she hadn’t known he was capable of. “If you’re that worried—then bond him to me. ”

Harry turned a spectacular shade of red.

Theo choked on a laugh.

Hermione stared at Cedric like he’d grown antlers.

“I’m serious,” Cedric said, jaw clenched. “If it’s all about keeping Harry safe, then bond him to me. You think I wouldn’t go to him the second something bad happened?”

Harry made a strangled sound low in his throat while Hermione closed her eyes in an attempt to withhold her boiling anger.

When she opened them, her voice was dangerously calm. “It won’t do us any good,” she said tightly, “to have you tethered to Harry’s location if you’re taken with Harry.”

Cedric froze. His jealousy drained from his face in real time, replaced by confusion—and then dawning horror. Hermione saw the moment the implication landed, and, in a heartbeat, she hated herself for telling him.

Harry, meanwhile, was still watching her, face scrunched in unease. “What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

Hermione looked down at the notes in front of her—utterly useless—and clenched her jaw.

“What do you mean taken with me?” Harry asked, louder now. There was a sharpness in his voice that made her shoulders tighten.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The question wasn’t simple, and she didn’t know how to wrap the truth in anything softer than steel.

A terrible silence fell.

Then Harry’s voice cracked wide open: “What the fuck do you mean, Hermione?”

Theo glared at Harry, the tension radiating off him like heat.

Hermione’s hands curled into fists. If she didn’t deflect, he’d keep digging for the truth. She exhaled through her nose and reached—reached for the only safe angle left to her: 

“How’s your Occlumency training going, Harry?”

The words tasted like ash.

The silence that followed was charged. She saw Cedric’s wince and Theo go still. She didn’t need to look to know that Harry had gone still with fury, too.

“Don’t—” Harry began, his voice low and shaking.

“Because if you’d actually practiced—” Hermione snapped, because she had to snap, because otherwise she’d cry —“maybe I wouldn’t have to lie to you all the time!”

She regretted it the second it left her mouth.

“FUCK YOU!” Harry shouted, leaping to his feet. The echo of it bounced off the walls. “You don’t get to lie to me and then blame me for it!”

“I’m not blaming you!” she yelled, eyes stinging. “I’m trying to keep you alive!”

“By treating me like some cursed object you have to manage?”

His voice was wild now, broken and furious, and Hermione’s stomach dropped because she’d never seen him like this—because she knew she’d pushed him to this point.

Her vision blurred.

“Harry,” she whispered, standing and reaching one tentative hand out to him. Her throat felt like it was closing. “Please. I’m not doing this to hurt you. I’m trying to—”

“I NEVER ASKED YOU TO!” he roared, his voice splitting with grief. “I never asked for any of this!”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

Theo muttered something, maybe telling them to sit down, maybe trying to diffuse things. She didn’t hear it properly.

She watched Harry step away from Cedric, who had reached out on instinct, and flinch as if the very idea of being touched was too much.

And then he turned toward the door to leave, a storm gathering on his face.

Her wand was in her hand before she even thought it through.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Harry froze mid-step, arms snapping to his sides, body going rigid. He wobbled once before toppling backward.

“HEY!” Cedric yelled, leaping up—but she was faster.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Cedric snapped into a plank with a furious grunt.

Theo was still seated, blinking like he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or horrified. “You’re off your rocker.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Hermione muttered, marching over and casting a feather-light Levitation Charm on each of the boys. She floated them back to tip up against the wall with a sharp wave of her wand and then stood before them, hands on hips, heart pounding.

“Alright,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I’m going to say what I can. Then I’ll let you go. You can hex the living daylights out of me if you like—but you need to hear this.”

She started pacing. “I don’t want to lie to you, Harry. Or to you, Cedric. You don’t know how much I hate it. But the truth— the full truth —isn’t something I can give you right now. I’m so sorry. I swear to you that once this task is over, I’ll explain everything. And you’ll understand why I couldn’t just tell you everything now.”

She stopped pacing long enough to glance at Harry’s immobilized form.

“I was wrong to throw Occlumency at you like that,” she said, her voice softening. “It was unfair. You’ve had more than enough on your plate without being expected to master obscure mind arts. That was me… lashing out. And I’m sorry.”

She swallowed hard.

“There are very few things that I can say now, but I will say them.”

She moved to the center of the room, facing them both. “Something might happen during the Third Task. I don’t know what exactly, because nothing is certain anymore. But either you—Harry—or possibly you and Cedric might be at risk of being taken. As in—abducted. By whom, I can’t say. What they want, I definitely can’t say. And if I try to tell you more—especially you, Harry—it’s only going to make things worse. A million times worse. More dangerous. More likely fatal.”

She resumed pacing, wringing her hands. “All I can do is help us prepare—not just for the Task itself, but for what might come after. Theo has Seen possible outcomes. Many of them… don’t end well.”

Her eyes flicked to Cedric. “He’s Seen versions where one—or all—of us die.”

Cedric didn’t move, but his expression, frozen as it was, seemed to darken.

Hermione’s voice cracked as she went on. “This potion, this bond… it’s not about trust. It’s about having even one failsafe left when everything else has gone to hell. And it probably will. I’m asking you to walk forward blind and believe me when I say that there is no other path.”

Silence rang out in the wake of her words.

She turned toward Theo with a tight breath. “You should go.”

“What?” he said flatly.

“In case they do want to hex me into next week,” she muttered. “No sense in you getting caught in the crossfire.”

Theo scoffed. “You’re so dramatic,” he said—and cast Finite Incantatem with a lazy flick of his wand.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Cedric shifted first, stretching out his limbs slowly. He didn’t speak. Just watched her with quiet suspicion before flicking concerned eyes toward Harry.

Harry inhaled deeply, jaw clenched. She braced for another explosion—but instead, he looked her squarely in the eye.

“I’ll do the potion,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll do what you say.”

Hermione’s breath escaped her lungs in a rush.

“But if any of this turns out to be another lie,” Harry said coldly, “I’ll never forgive you.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted—but she met his gaze. “It’s not,” she whispered. “I swear, Harry. It’s not.”

He stared at her a moment longer.

Then he reached over, took Cedric’s hand, and led him silently from the room.

Hermione remained where she stood, shoulders trembling.

Behind her, Theo blew out a breath and said, “Well. That could’ve gone slightly worse.”

She gave him a withering glare—and then sat down heavily on the floor, burying her head in her hands.

He crept up behind her, sitting softly and wrapping his arms around her trembling body. “I’m sorry—it’ll be alright.”

“But Ha—”

“Harry will forgive you,” Theo interrupted firmly. “He’s the classic bleeding-heart, forgive-and-forget type.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “It’ll be alright.”

A beat passed.

“You called him Harry,” she sniffled with a faint smile.

Theo merely grumbled something unintelligible in response.

Harry

Harry didn’t stop walking until he’d pulled Cedric three corridors down and into an empty classroom. The door clicked shut behind them, and Harry released his grip on Cedric’s hand like it had burned him.

He paced the room like a caged animal—up and down the far wall, shoes scuffing against hard stone. His heart was still hammering like he’d run a mile.

Cedric stood near the door, watching silently. Waiting.

“I’m going to get you killed.”

The words tore out of Harry before he’d even meant to say them, and when he turned to look at Cedric, the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

Panic slammed into him all at once—raw and bright and unbearable. He could barely breathe. “I’m—I’m going to get you killed.”

Cedric’s eyes widened. “Harry—”

Harry’s knees nearly buckled, and suddenly Cedric was there, arms around him, grounding him as Harry shook against his chest. Cedric’s hand moved in slow circles across his back, his voice low and firm near Harry’s ear.

“Hey. No. You are not. You hear me? That’s not going to happen.”

“You don’t know that,” Harry whispered, voice ragged.

“We’re going to be fine,” Cedric said, pulling back enough to look him in the eyes. “You, me, Theo, Hermione—we’re not going into this alone, and we are not walking into a death sentence.”

“You signed up for a tournament,” Harry said sharply. “Danger from tasks. Not from Voldemort.”

The name landed with a jolt, heavy and real.

Harry’s voice dropped to a tremble. “Because let’s be honest. Who else cares enough to abduct me? Or me and someone I love?”

For a moment, Cedric just looked at him—then a small, bittersweet smile touched his lips. “You’re getting better at saying that.”

Harry’s hands curled into fists. “Don’t. Don’t you dare make it into a joke right now.”

Cedric started to speak, then stopped himself. Something in his demeanor shifted. His smile twisted into something darker—calmer, controlled, and utterly infuriating. He pushed Harry away, the gleam in his eye making Harry’s breath catch.

“What are you doing,” Harry said warily.

Cedric kept pushing him backwards until Harry bumped up against the edge of a table.

“What are you gonna do about it?” he asked, voice honey-slick and dangerous. 

Harry’s pulse spiked. “Are you trying to make me angry right now?”

“I am,” Cedric admitted with shameless ease. “Can’t have you stewing like this forever. Might as well give you a target.”

Harry stared at him—at the maddening tilt of his mouth, the unbearable closeness, the goddamn calm of him.

It snapped something loose inside.

Harry grabbed Cedric by the collar and yanked him forward, crushing their mouths together with wild heat and frustration. Cedric responded instantly, hands gripping Harry’s waist, then slipping up his back to anchor him close.

It wasn’t their usual kind of kiss, or even their usual kind of snogging. It wasn’t soft or careful or sweet.

This one was a collision—teeth, breath, heat.

Harry made a low, desperate sound as Cedric angled his head and deepened the kiss, lifting Harry to sit atop the table.

“I hate you right now,” Harry muttered into his mouth.

Cedric bit his bottom lip in retaliation. “No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You really don’t.”

Harry shoved him lightly by the chest. “You’re such a smug arse.”

Cedric kissed the corner of his jaw. “If you don’t like it just tell me to stop.”

“I’m thinking about it,” Harry gritted out—but the way he pulled Cedric back in by the front of his shirt said otherwise.

They kissed again—longer this time, needier.

Then Cedric’s lips drifted. Down the edge of Harry’s jaw, along the curve of his throat. His mouth was hot and sure, and when he found the spot just beneath Harry’s ear and sucked lightly, Harry’s breath hitched hard in his chest.

“Oh—”

His brain fizzed out like a spell misfired. He couldn’t remember what they’d been arguing about. He couldn’t remember his own name —not with Cedric's mouth dragging lower, slow and unhurried, like he was memorizing him.

Harry’s hands clenched tighter in Cedric’s shirt, the fabric twisting between his fingers. His entire body felt like jelly, and the only reason he was still upright was the table beneath him and the solid weight of Cedric pressed close in front.

“Merlin,” he whispered, voice barely there.

Cedric chuckled, low and pleased, and mouthed at his collarbone in response.

Harry's head tipped back. His eyes fluttered shut.

If Cedric kept this up, Harry wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't melt into a puddle.

And maybe that was when the realization hit him—how much they'd just… escalated. How fast his heart was racing and how warm his skin felt and how, suddenly, he was fighting the urge to wrap his legs around Cedric and pull his even closer—

“Okay—okay—” Harry gasped, flattening both hands against Cedric’s chest.

Cedric froze immediately, pulling back to search Harry’s face with concern. “Too much?”

Harry’s cheeks were hot—his entire body was hot with rushing blood.

“I just—might need a minute,” Harry muttered. “That was... a lot.”

Cedric nodded with a soft, almost sheepish smile. It was warm and affectionate and entirely unbothered by Harry calling quits.

“Yeah, it was a lot,” he said easily, brushing his fingers gently across Harry’s flushed cheek. “Take as many minutes as you want.”

Harry exhaled in relief, closing his eyes briefly and leaning into the touch.

There was a long, quiet moment where nothing moved but their chests; their breathing slowed and Harry calmed.

Then, softly: “You really offered to bond yourself to me.”

Cedric’s hand paused for the smallest moment before resuming its gentle stroke along Harry’s jaw. “Yeah.”

Harry opened one eye, a mischievous glint peeking through the softness. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not,” Cedric lied, absolutely pink across his cheeks.

Harry grinned. “I love it when I manage to fluster you. Feels like justice.”

Cedric huffed a laugh, ducking his head for a second before lifting his gaze again. “If it would’ve helped keep you safe, of course I would’ve done it.”

Harry’s grin faded into something quieter—grateful, maybe. He nodded. “I’ll make the tether with Hermione—even though I’m still peeved at her. She’s bloody brilliant and I’d be an idiot not to take her advice.”

Cedric’s expression softened. “She is.”

There was a beat of hesitation, and then Cedric added, “Would you consider tethering to me, too?”

Harry blinked. “Sure. But… why?”

Cedric shrugged, trying for casual but not quite pulling it off. “By the sound of it, I might not be abducted with you. If that happens—if you get taken alone—I want to be able to find you.”

Harry stared at him for a long moment. “So you want me to give you a magical tether that might land you right in the middle of Voldemort’s plans… in the one version of events where I wouldn’t have to worry about you dying?”

Cedric rolled his eyes. “Think of it this way: if we are abducted together and get separated… won’t you want a tether that can get you back to me?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, searching for an argument against Cedric’s logic—but after a moment, he sighed. “Yeah. I would.”

Cedric smiled—small and sure—and leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to Harry’s lips.

“Then it’s settled,” he murmured.

Harry didn’t answer, but the way his fingers curled into Cedric’s shirt said more than words.

Chapter Text

Harry

The thread tugged—gently, insistently—against the inside of his chest, and for the first time since they'd made the tether, Harry clung to it like a lifeline.

Sure, it was a magical bond meant to serve as a safety net in case of a (likely impending) deadly scenario. But in the weeks since they'd formed the connection, the tether had primarily been fun —an excuse to find each other between classes and sneak kisses in the fourth-floor broom cupboard. Harry felt the tug and knew Cedric was never far.

Now, it felt more like a wrench at his chest. Cedric was growing more distant—the big something that Hermione had been preparing them for for weeks was imminent, and Harry was terrified.

Cedric had entered the maze first—an advantage given because he had the top score. Krum had followed. Last up were Fleur and Harry, who had tied for points from the previous two tasks. Harry stood beside the entrance, wand in his hand and heart in his throat. The magical thread between him and Cedric was still intact, but it stretched thinner with every minute.

He wanted to chase it—to follow it until he saw Cedric in front of him, alive and well.

A cannon fired, and the hedgerows opened for the third time.

Harry ran into the maze without a backwards glance.

Hermione

From the shadows beneath the stands, Hermione watched Harry disappear between the towering hedgerows, the magical tether tugging ever-so-faintly against her sternum like the string of a kite.

It was only a matter of time now before she would feel it—an impossible stretch, too fast and too far. The telltale sign of a portkey whisking Harry away.

Time to move.

She was prepared: her wand already gripped in one hand, her bag charmed featherlight over her shoulder. Essence of Dittany, blood replenisher, invigoration draught, and emergency portkeys all tucked carefully inside.

But even as she walked to leave, her eyes lingered at the maze entrance.

Crouch Junior was in there somewhere, despite her best efforts.

She’d patrolled for hours, tracking everyone who passed even remotely near the maze. Dumbledore himself had carried the cup into the maze. It was a trap laid out for Crouch Junior; they had to let him modify the portkey, but they didn’t have to let him escape. And if they caught him early-on, they could even get more information about what was to come—what had changed.  

But Hermione had seen no sign of an intruder, no sign of someone “allowed” near the maze who could be Crouch Junior under polyjuice, and not even a shadow where one shouldn’t be. The best she could guess was that Crouch Junior had passed right under her nose, disillusioned.

Plan A—capture and Veritaserum—was off the table.

Now, she would just have to work off the outdated information she had available.

She turned and began walking toward the exit of the Quidditch stands’ underbelly. It was time to get outside of the Hogwarts grounds and wards, where she could disapparate the moment the tether pulled. 

With any luck, the portkey would drop Harry right where they expected—right where Theo was already waiting to take action. Hermione had apparated him to the cemetery earlier in the day, leaving him to wait under the Invisibility Cloak and a Disillusionment Charm for good measure. If they were wrong about the location… or if Theo was discovered…

She couldn’t think about that.

Dropping the disillusionment she’d used while beneath the shadowed scaffolding of the stands, she reached into her cloak and drew out a galleon. She tapped a message to it with her wand:

H.P. still in maze. Jr. not intercepted. H.G. leaving wards.

The coin warmed briefly in her palm.

She was just ducking beneath the final wooden beam when movement in the shadows caught her eye.

Rita Skeeter. Notepad floating, Quick-Quotes Quill dancing like a spider.

Hermione’s lip curled in disgust. “What part of ‘leave the country’ did you not understand?”

Rita turned, eyes wide and startled—and then… smiled. She threw back her head with a savage laugh—as though Hermione had just made her entire day.

There was no time to draw her wand.

No time to dodge.

Just a flash of light—

And then everything went black.

Harry

Harry was standing in front of an odd golden mist that shimmered and pulsed, a thick wall of enchantment blocking the path forward. He narrowed his eyes at it. There was something familiar about this—some trap from one of Hermione’s endless warning lists—but he couldn’t remember exactly what. The mist was probably illusion magic, maybe displacement or inversion. Something that twisted perception.

He was still debating how to cross safely when, somewhere beyond the mist, Fleur screamed.

It was a high, piercing sound, loud enough to punch straight through the eerie stillness of the maze.

Harry’s instincts overtook his hesitation. Without another thought, he plunged into the mist. For one disorienting moment, the world flipped upside down—his stomach lurched and his feet left the ground—but then he tumbled out the other side, landing on solid earth once more.

He staggered to his feet and spun in a slow circle. No sign of Fleur. No sign of anyone.

The pull to Cedric was still there—steady and warm. Harry focused on it and felt a strange tug toward the northwest. Cedric was ahead of him, yes, but also off-course, veering toward a corner of the maze far from the cup's location.

What the hell was he doing?

Harry ran on. He took a fork left, then another, turning deeper into the hedge in pursuit of Cedric, when—

He skidded to a halt.

Fleur.

She was lying face-down in the grass, her wand a few inches from her outstretched hand.

Harry knelt beside her and checked her pulse. Alive, thank Merlin. Unconscious.

A skittering, wet sound scraped across the hedges behind him. He whirled, just in time to see a massive blast-ended skrewt barreling down the path. It snapped and hissed, smoke curling from its armored tail.

“Impedimenta!” Harry bellowed, wand raised.

The skrewt slowed but didn’t stop. He fired again and again—each spell pushing it back a step—until finally it flipped onto its back like a smoking, twitching beetle.

Harry exhaled shakily and turned back to Fleur. The sight of her motionless form sent a chill through him. She would’ve been helpless.

He raised his wand and shot red sparks into the air. They shimmered overhead like a flare, and he hoped someone was watching. Then he took off again, retracing his steps and continuing to angle northwest.

He met two different dead ends, circling back each time and cursing the maze with every turn. At one junction he had to pause, muttering the Four-Point Spell and holding his wand flat. “Point me,” he said, and the wand twitched in his palm, pointing north. He turned, adjusted, sprinted.

He’d been running for several minutes when he heard it: shouting, harsh and frantic, from a parallel path just beyond the hedge.

“What are you doing?” Cedric’s voice, angry and confused. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?”

Then another voice—Krum.

“Crucio!”

Cedric’s screams ripped through the hedges.

Harry’s blood ran cold.

He bolted toward the sound, crashing through brambles and branches. “Reducto!” he shouted at the hedge wall, blasting a small hole through the thick greenery. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. He forced his way through, scraping his arms and tearing his robes. Thorns caught at his sleeves and cut his cheek.

He stumbled into the clearing just in time to see Cedric writhing on the ground, spasming under the force of the Cruciatus Curse. Krum loomed above him, wand outstretched, eyes empty.

Rage boiled in Harry’s chest. “Stupefy!”

The spell slammed into Krum’s chest like a hammer. He flew backward and hit the hedge wall hard before crumpling to the ground.

Harry dropped to his knees beside Cedric, his chest heaving. He reached for Cedric’s face, pushing back damp hair. “Cedric—Cedric, it’s me—it’s over. You’re okay.”

Cedric was gasping like he’d run a marathon, his hands clutching his ribs as if holding himself together. “It—hurt—so much,” he choked out. “Bloody— hell—”

Harry’s throat tightened. “I know. I’m here. You’re alright now.”

Cedric’s eyes fluttered open, dazed and glassy, and landed on Harry. His gaze sharpened slightly—recognition, relief. Tears spilled out and ran sideways into his hair.

Harry’s heart seized at the sight of it. 

“I didn’t think—it’s Krum —why would he—?” Cedric rasped, a tremor in his voice.

“Shh, don’t talk,” Harry said, his hand wrapping firmly around Cedric’s. “You don’t have to explain. Just breathe.”

Cedric nodded weakly, gripping Harry’s hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the planet.

Harry looked over at Krum’s motionless form, muttering, “He was under the Imperius. I could see it in his eyes...”

Harry raised his wand and shot red sparks into the air for the second time. “If the judges have half a brain they’ll get him out of here before something eats him.”

Cedric grumbled something uncharitable and Harry couldn’t find it in himself to blame him.

Harry gently pulled Cedric into a sitting position, wiping tear tracks from his face with care. His amber eyes were so bright from the tears. “You may be the only person who comes out of crying looking more beautiful,” Harry murmured.

Cedric snorted, more tears spilling. “That is the absolute worst compliment.”

The tether between them thrummed happily when they were like this—tangled close. Harry wasn’t sure why the sensation was so different with Cedric than Hermione. He just knew everything felt better when they were intertwined like this.

“We’re almost there,” Harry whispered, his voice steady despite the burn in his throat. “We’ll finish this. Together.”

Cedric leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder and nodded. “Let’s go win a bloody Tournament.”

The Triwizard Cup gleamed just ahead—barely twenty meters away, its golden handles catching the shifting light of the maze’s enchanted sky.

“We’re nearly there,” Harry said breathlessly, his wand still clenched tightly in his hand. “Just past the clearing—”

A skittering sound interrupted him.

Cedric grabbed his arm, yanking him back just as a massive, hairy leg came down inches from where Harry had been about to step.

“Oh, for the love of—” Cedric cursed, stumbling backward as an acromantula emerged from the hedge like a nightmare made flesh. Eight glinting eyes, fangs dripping, legs spanning wider than a Hippogriff’s wingspan.

Harry raised his wand instinctively. “Stupefy!”

The spell hit the spider’s carapace with a dull thud, knocking it back a step but doing little else. It let out a screech that made Harry’s skin crawl.

Cedric dodged a swinging leg and shouted, “Joints and eyes! Like Hermione said!”

“Morgana bless her,” Harry mumbled, sidestepping as pincers snapped at him.

Cedric fired a Blasting Curse. “Fucking Nott knew there’d be a spider.”

“Less talking, more maiming!” Harry shouted, flicking his wand upward. “Bombarda!”

The acromantula shrieked as the targeted spell hit its eyes, staggering backward several paces. Cedric seized the moment, twirling his wand. “Reducto!”

The blast struck one of the creature’s joints with a sickening crunch, and the Acromantula reared up, unbalanced, fury vibrating through its entire frame.

“Left side!” Harry shouted.

“I see it!”

Together, they aimed. Twin spells collided with the beast’s flank—Harry’s Severing Charm and Cedric’s second Reducto—sending a spray of ichor splattering across the hedge wall.

The Acromantula teetered.

“Don’t you dare fall on us,” Cedric muttered. “Impedimenta!”

The curse sent the spider toppling backward, crashing into the hedge behind it.

A silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the sound of both boys panting.

Cedric doubled over, hands on his knees. Harry nudged him and nodded his head toward the Cup. “There it is.”

They both stared at it—gleaming and so unassuming. It was perched innocently atop a plinth in the center of the clearing like a prize at the end of a nightmare.

They exchanged a look, then began walking side by side toward the cup, the air still humming faintly from the spells they'd hurled.

“Well, as the true Hogwarts champion,” Cedric said lightly, “shouldn’t I be the one to take it?”

Harry barked a laugh and shoved him. “You liked those badges, didn’t you?”

Cedric gasped in mock offense. “Absolutely not. They were tacky. ”

“But accurate?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Harry let out a scandalized noise, then grabbed Cedric by the collar and kissed him. It was quick, a little wild, and equally charged with adrenaline and affection.

But when Cedric pulled back, there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder at the hedges.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I just… I’ve got a bad feeling. Let’s get out of here. Celebrate later, when we’re not—well, in a maze full of things trying to kill us.”

Reality snapped back like a rubber band. Harry nodded, his fingers tightening around Cedric’s. “Yeah. Right.”

Cedric gave him a soft smile and brushed a thumb over his cheek. “Let’s take it together. Split the win.”

Harry hesitated, biting his lip. “I sort of want it to be just you,” he admitted. “I don’t want to take anything from you.”

Cedric leaned in and kissed him again—short and grounding. “You’re an idiot,” he said fondly. “You think that matters to me?”

Then, lower, his lips near Harry’s ear: “C’mon. Let’s do another thing that links us.”

Harry’s breath hitched, his entire body shivering. He smiled—wide and real and full of something bright. “Alright.”

They looked at each other, a beat of silence passing between them.

“Together?” Cedric asked.

Harry nodded. “Together.”

Their fingers were still laced between them as they reached with their free hands to grab the Cup—

And then Harry felt the telltale hook behind his navel.

The world spun into streaks of color, his feet unmoored from solid ground, his hand fused to the Cup and—more importantly—to Cedric’s hand. Cedric’s grip didn’t loosen for an instant.

They hit the ground hard.

Harry’s feet slammed down first, but his balance was wrecked by the continued spin—and Cedric’s momentum crashed into him half a second later, sending them both sprawling into a patch of dry, brittle grass. Cedric landed on top of him with an audible grunt.

Harry wheezed and coughed—the wind having been knocked from his lungs painfully.

“Bloody hell—Harry, get up!”

Harry blinked dazedly, the impact still rattling through him. He felt Cedric scrambling, dragging him upright with one hand while the other yanked out his wand.

“Harry? Harry!” Cedric grabbed Harry’s face, forcing their eyes to meet. “This is it. This is the abduction. The one from Theo’s visions.”

The panic shot through Harry like lightning. His wand was in his hand before he even thought about it.

They spun in tandem, searching for an attacker—searching for a threat—

They had left Hogwarts. Not just the maze—Hogwarts itself. The mountains that usually rimmed the horizon were gone, and they stood instead in a wild, overgrown graveyard. The grass was yellowed and dry beneath their feet. Just beyond a looming yew tree, Harry could make out the crumbling outline of a small church, and further up the hill to their left, the skeletal silhouette of a fine old house.

“This isn’t—” Harry began.

“Finite incantatem,” said a familiar voice.

Harry and Cedric spun in tandem.

A figure appeared out of thin air, robes billowing around him, striding toward them with grim urgency.

“Theo?” Harry gasped, eyes wide.

“Nott,” Cedric said blankly, stunned. His wand didn’t lower, but his posture was frozen.

Theo didn’t stop walking. “Hermione’s on her way,” he said quickly. “Do exactly as I say, and we’ll all survive.”

“What—?” Harry started, but Theo turned sharply to Cedric, wand already rising to tap on his head.

“Illusio maxima!” Theo muttered. A cascade of magic swept down Cedric’s frame. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to mottle his shape and dull his edges.

Theo’s eyes flicked between them—sharp, calculating. “Trust me.”

Then: “Stupefy.”

Cedric crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut, vanishing into the grass.

“Wait—what are you—?!” Harry started forward in protest, but Theo’s wand was already rising again.

“Obliviate.”

Harry’s world went white.

Harry

When Harry came back to himself, he was being dragged.

His heels thudded along dry earth. The grass—if it could be called that—was sparse and scraggly below him, and the warm summer air felt clammy against his skin. His forehead—his scar—felt like it might crack his skull open from the inside.

Then he was wrenched upright.

Wandlight flared in the dark, and he caught a brief, bone-white glint as he was forced back against a marble headstone. The pain in his head made his vision pulse. But what he read was unmistakable:

Tom Riddle.

He barely had time to register the name before thick, magical cords whipped around him—binding his chest, his arms, his legs—tying him to the grave marker with unforgiving pressure. He struggled instinctively, heart thundering, mind scrambling.

How had he gotten here?

He’d been in the maze. Fleur had screamed. The skrewt had nearly gotten her while she was unconscious…

But what happened after that?

The realization fell like a guillotine. He had no memory of anything after that. No memory of arriving in this place. Wherever ‘this place’ even was. He realized, dread crashing over him, that this was it. This was the abduction.

Theo’s visions. Hermione’s warnings. The tether. Everything. This moment was what they’d been preparing for.

And—thank Merlin— Cedric wasn’t here.

Harry’s lungs stuttered with sudden, wild relief. If Cedric hadn’t been brought too… maybe he was safe. Harry tugged at the invisible thread of the bond between them—

It was there. Steady and— 

Close?

Harry felt hope flare in his chest. If he could still feel Cedric that intensely then Harry must be near Hogwarts—maybe even just somewhere in Hogsmeade. His heart leapt. He might be able to hold on long enough for Hermione to—

A hissing noise sliced through the quiet.

Harry jerked his head around, breath catching in his throat.

A massive snake, easily twelve feet long, was circling the headstone. Yellow eyes caught the torchlight. Its scales shimmered in the dark. 

And then he saw it.

The thing on the ground.

Writhing. Small. Swaddled in silks and the size of a malformed child. It hissed, high and cold: “ Hurry! ”

A figure appeared, robed and hunched, dragging an enormous cauldron behind him. Harry blinked in horror as the fire beneath it blazed to life with diamond-bright sparks.

“It is ready, Master,” came the voice of the man—strained, winded. 

Harry’s gut boiled with anger as he recognized the voice as Wormtail’s.

“ Now... ” said the creature on the ground.

Harry wanted to look away but couldn’t. He knew. He knew what that thing was. Let it drown, he thought wildly, his scar burning like a brand. Please, let it drown.

But Wormtail was already lifting it into the cauldron.

Harry clamped his eyes shut, just as the writhing form splashed into the potion.

“Bone of the father... unknowingly given... you will renew your son!”

There was a terrible crack! —the sound of splitting earth—and Harry’s head snapped down in time to see a fine stream of dust rise from the cracked grave beneath him and swirl into the cauldron. The potion hissed and turned a vivid, poisonous blue.

Wormtail was whimpering now. His voice trembled:

“Flesh... of the servant... w-willingly given... you will... revive your master.”

He raised a dagger. Harry closed his eyes again, tightly, but it didn’t block out the scream that followed. The sound pierced the night and Harry felt the blood drain from his face as Wormtail’s ragged breathing resumed. Another splash. The potion roared red.

The next words of the ritual made Harry’s heart seize: 

“B-blood of the enemy... forcibly taken... you will... resurrect your foe.”

“No—” Harry whispered, struggling against the ropes. “No—don’t—”

The dagger pricked the crook of his arm. Warm blood slipped down his sleeve. A vial was held to the wound. 

Wormtail staggered back to the cauldron with Harry’s blood and poured it inside.

White. The potion blazed so bright Harry could see it through his closed eyelids. It turned the whole graveyard ghost-pale.

But just as the despair began to set in—

Harry felt it.

That warm, pulling sensation beneath his skin.

The tether.

It reared tight and sharp—Hermione.

She’s coming.

He nearly cried in relief. She was on her way. It was going to be okay. She’d promised. She’d made this bond for exactly this purpose. She was coming for him.

A crack! echoed across the graveyard.

Apparition. 

Harry strained to see but the sound came from behind the headstone. He felt her, though. Hermione was close now. Close enough to reach him in seconds.

The potion roiled.

A shape began to rise from it.

Through the mist, Harry saw a man—tall, skeletal. He was wreathed in steam. “ Robe me, ” the high, cold voice said.

Harry heard Wormtail’s pathetic whimpering.

But another voice answered instead—sharp and adoring:

“Please, allow me, my Lord.”

Harry’s blood ran cold.

A woman stepped into view—tight blonde curls, jeweled spectacles glinting, crimson-painted nails curved like talons. 

And suspended in the air behind her, limp and unmoving, was Hermione.

Harry’s heart nearly stopped. “No,” he breathed.

But it was too late.

The woman smiled.

And Voldemort began to laugh.

Chapter Text

Harry

There was a buzzing in Harry’s skull—not from pain exactly, but from something deeper. Dread. Shock. Disbelief.

That couldn’t be Hermione. It just couldn’t.

She hung limply, suspended in the air, dragged through the air like some broken doll. And the woman pulling her—tall, blonde, and grinning like she’d just won a contest—was entirely unfamiliar. Except that… something about her too-wide smile made his stomach turn.

Theo had told them that many of his visions ended in their death—the death of some of them, or all of them.

Harry’s chest constricted at the thought of Hermione never opening her eyes again. Of Cedric never seeing Harry again.

His scar burned, sharp and sickening, and his gaze jerked toward the dark center of the clearing where Voldemort—no longer a child’s corpse, but still more monster than man—was pressing one long, pale finger to the clear white skin of the blonde woman’s forearm. Her face twisted with something like ecstasy. Wormtail was nearby, collapsed and whimpering, clutching the bloody stump of his hand and begging for help.

Voldemort turned toward him in disgust.

“Please, Master—help me—”

But Harry’s eyes snapped to the woman; she turned and began stalking toward Harry with a mad glint in her eye. Her heeled boots wobbled in the grass as she approached, dragging Hermione behind her.

“Don’t you recognize me?” she said, laughing, her voice light and cruel. “No? Well, your little Seer friend didn’t either.”

Harry stared, confused and nauseated. The woman's smile stretched wider, and with a vicious tug of her wand, she dropped Hermione’s unconscious body at Harry’s feet.

Then—

“Bartemius,” said the high, cold voice of Voldemort.

The woman winked at Harry, then turned.

“Yes, my Lord?” she simpered, striding toward him like a parody of grace.

Harry’s jaw dropped open. It was Barty Crouch Junior. 

Voldemort dragged a long pale finger across Crouch Junior’s cheek as he said, “Stand beside me.”

“I am honored, my Lord.”

Harry could barely think—barely breathe—before the world tilted again.

From the shadows, all around, came the swishing of cloaks and the pop-pop-pop of Apparition. Death Eaters, masked and hooded, filled the graveyard. They moved forward slowly, like they were approaching a miracle. Voldemort said nothing, letting them absorb the sight of him.

One of them dropped to their knees, crawled to Voldemort, and kissed the hem of his robe.

“Welcome, Death Eaters,” Voldemort murmured, his voice thin and dangerous. “Thirteen years... thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday. We are still united under the Dark Mark, then. Or are we?”

Harry barely heard the words. His eyes were on Hermione, still lying at his feet. She twitched a finger. Then her jaw shifted slightly. She was alive. Harry’s eyes pricked as relief washed over him.

“Crucio,” Voldemort said casually.

A kneeling Death Eater screamed and writhed on the ground, and the sound cut through the graveyard like lightning. Harry flinched, wishing—desperately—for someone to hear it and come. The Muggle police even. Just someone.

“Get up, Avery,” Voldemort said softly. “Stand up. You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget.”

The tortured man gasped, dragging himself upright.

“Thirteen long years,” Voldemort continued. “I want thirteen years’ repayment before I forgive you. Wormtail here has paid some of his debt already, haven’t you, Wormtail?”

Wormtail groaned from the grass, head bowed.

Voldemort turned to the blonde woman again—Barty, Harry reminded himself, Barty Crouch Junior —and reached out to cradle his disguised face with long fingers.

“Only Bartemius has remained truly loyal,” Voldemort said, his voice quiet, reverent. “He searched for me. He fought for me. He brought me back.”

“My Lord,” Crouch whispered, bowing his head like he was being knighted.

“Help me sort through this... riff-raff,” Voldemort said lazily, eyes glinting. “Let us see which of our old friends still deserve to serve me.”

Crouch turned with delight, drawing his wand. “Gladly.”

They began walking among the masked figures, Voldemort speaking to each one as if they were old chess pieces he was dusting off.

“Lucius,” Voldemort crooned. “My slippery friend. I am told you have not renounced the old ways, though to the world you present a respectable face. Most useful to us still, is he not, Bartemius?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Crouch agreed. “We shall find use for dear Lucius yet.”

Voldemort’s eyes continued down the line of masked figures, and Crouch’s wand abruptly rose. He stopped in front of a tall man standing utterly still, robes impeccable.

Harry felt something shift in the air.

Because even behind the mask, he could see the set of that jaw. The stillness. The hatred.

With a furious wave of his wand, Crouch ripped the mask off to reveal— 

Professor Snape.

Harry gaped as renewed loathing of the man roiled his gut.

“Oh, Bartemius,” Voldemort tittered, turning back toward the gathered circle. “Why so distrusting of our old friend Severus?”

Crouch spat onto the ground, his voice curled in scorn. “He is no friend of mine. Nor is he loyal to you, my Lord.”

Voldemort hummed, faintly amused. “Is that so?”

His red eyes slid to Snape.

The man in question inclined his head ever so slightly, his voice unaffected. “I remain your faithful servant, my Lord. Positioned close to Dumbledore… precisely so that I may spy for you.”

Voldemort sighed, long and cold. “A problem for another day. Set him aside.”

Crouch’s expression twisted with glee as he raised his wand. “Incarcerous.”

Ropes whipped through the air, binding Snape tightly and gagging him. Then came a swift charm to carry him away from the circle, eventually dumping his body beside Hermione. As Crouch Junior marched behind, the illusion of the blonde woman melted away—hair retracting, limbs elongating—and suddenly Harry saw Barty Crouch Junior in his true form, gaunt and wild-eyed. It was just as in the vision two months ago.

He sneered down at Snape. “You made a mistake, coming back here. Thinking you could still fool him. I know the truth, Severus. You were corrupted by a mudblood whore.”

Snape thrashed suddenly, straining against the ropes, eyes blazing with fury.

Harry watched with confusion as Crouch turned away, striding back toward the circle and transfiguring his robes into something more proper—midnight black with silver fastenings.

On the ground, Hermione stirred.

Snape’s attention snapped to her instantly, black eyes sharp with focus. He shifted, grunting against the gag, then glanced toward Harry—urgently.

Harry sneered down at him on instinct—but then followed Snape’s gaze to Hermione, staring until it finally clicked:

She was unbound.

She just needed to wake up.

Harry twisted as much as he could, whispering, “Hermione. Hermione, wake up—please—”

Snape nudged her with his bound feet, not gently.

Harry spared one moment of thought to the fact that he was working with—of all people— Snape toward a common goal.

Hermione groaned, her fingers twitching. Her eyes fluttered open, facing Harry as they did. He watched as they focused on him with confusion.

“Harry?” she said groggily.

He shushed her quickly. Voldemort was still speaking to the Death Eaters—thankfully turned away:

“We will, Master. . . .” came a pair of voices.

“The same goes for you, Nott,” Voldemort said lazily to someone nearby.

“My Lord, I prostrate myself before you, I am your most faithful—”

“That will do,” said Voldemort, already bored.

Hermione’s eyes darted wildly, assessing the scene while trying to stay unnoticed on the ground. She patted at her robes, digging into hidden pockets. Her mouth twisted in frustration.

“Snape—your wand?” she hissed.

Snape managed to make a scoffing noise through the gag and rolled his eyes.

Hermione huffed at him, turning to Harry. Then she froze. Her eyes widened with sudden realization.

“Harry,” she whispered. “Call your wand.”

Harry just looked at her dumbly. “What?”

She visibly ground her teeth together. “The wand. The cloak. You’ve summoned them before! Just focus— will them to appear for you.”

Memory surged through Harry—his wand flying into his hand in the dragon enclosure, the cloak appearing in his lap in Cedric’s dorm…

He squeezed his eyes shut and imagined his wand in his right hand and his cloak clutched in his left.

With a soft whoomf! of displaced air, they materialized.

Warmth flooded through him from their mere presence. He twisted his wrist as far as he could in the binds to point at Snape. “Vincula Removere.”

The ropes around Snape vanished in an instant.

Snape spared only a moment to gape at Harry wide-eyed. Then he gave a rasping groan, and muttered under his breath, “We haven’t much time, so you two braindead idiots better listen closely.” He spoke with an unquestionable authority, “As soon as you summon my wand, they’ll know something’s wrong. You two put that cloak on and run. Don’t look back.”

Still bound, Harry met Hermione’s eyes.

She nodded and slowly stretched out her hand below Harry.

Understanding implicitly, Harry dropped his wand into her waiting palm. “Vincula Removere,” she whispered, and the painful restraints holding Harry to the gravestone vanished.

Harry hit the ground hard, then scrambled up. Together, he and Hermione threw the cloak over their shoulders. 

Hermione shoved Harry’s wand back into his hand.

Harry’s chest pounded.

“Accio Snape’s wand!” he said clearly, pointing toward the circle of Death Eaters.

From a pocket deep within Crouch’s robes, Snape’s wand launched into the night, spinning once before slapping neatly into Snape’s waiting palm. Magic sizzled through the air with finality.

All motion in the graveyard ceased.

Crouch had frozen mid-step. Voldemort turned slowly, his long fingers poised in the air like the talons of some hideous bird of prey. His red eyes found Snape.

“Ah,” Voldemort breathed, so softly it could have been the wind. “Severus… I see.”

A long pause stretched between them like a taut string.

“How long, I wonder?” Voldemort murmured, beginning to move slowly toward him. “How long have you lied to me?”

“TRAITOR!” Crouch roared, spittle flying from his lips. “I knew it—I knew you were Dumbledore’s pet mongrel all along! All you ever cared about was that filthy little mudblood whore—!”

Voldemort raised a hand, calm and cutting. Crouch silenced instantly, trembling with restraint.

“An underage witch and wizard can’t have gone far,” Voldemort said with eerie composure. “Bartemius… find them.”

Crouch spun on the spot with frightening speed, eyes gleaming as he raised his wand. “Accio Invisibility Cloak!”

Hermione tensed so hard beside Harry she nearly toppled over. But the fabric didn’t so much as flutter; it stayed, loyal and heavy, cloaking them still. A tremor of disbelief ran through Crouch’s face before he began lashing spells in all directions.

“Revelare!” he hissed. “Stupefy! Impedimenta!”

Spells zipped past their hiding place, one striking the side of their tombstone with a sharp crack. Hermione yanked Harry lower behind it, her fingers bruising his bicep.

Harry barely registered her touch. His ears were ringing. His entire body tensed at the sound that came next—

Snape’s scream.

It cut through the night like a jagged piece of glass. Harry’s stomach dropped.

“Don’t, Harry,” Hermione whispered sharply. “Don’t you dare.”

The scream echoed again, ragged and raw. Then silence. Voldemort’s voice, low and cruel, carried through the stillness:

“Who would have thought,” he said, almost contemplatively, “that the servant to first hand me the boy would then be the one who gave everything to save him?”

Then, calmly, “Crucio.”

Snape’s howl tore through the quiet.

“Harry,” Hermione hissed, attempting to hold him with both hands gripped fiercely around his arm now. “No. No, don’t—!”

He moved anyway.

Her nails scraped his skin hard enough to draw blood, but he still slipped loose. Leaving the cloak with Hermione, Harry bolted toward the center of the graveyard where Snape was writhing on the ground.

Just as he slid to a stop beside Snape, Harry cast at Voldemort in hopes of catching him by surprise: “Expelliarmus!”

Voldemort dropped the Cruciatus Curse on Snape just in time to snap up a shield. Harry’s spell fizzled out with a flash of red before it could meet its target. Voldemort’s head turned slowly.

“There you are,” he murmured, delight curling the corners of his mouth. “Harry Potter… come back to play?”

Snape was on the ground, twitching and bloodied. “Go— GO!” he snarled hoarsely.

Harry didn’t move.

He lifted his wand.

Voldemort smiled, eyes glinting. “Let’s see what Dumbledore has taught you, shall we?” He snapped off a curse silently.

“Protego!” Harry cried, just in time. The purple curse Voldemort had flung crashed into the shield, sizzling into nothing. Voldemort let out a pleased laugh.

“Very good, very good.” His voice was light, almost admiring. “But it won’t save you.”