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The library's familiar mustiness wrapped around Harry like a particularly bookish blanket as he pushed through the heavy doors. His ribs had settled into a dull ache that spiked whenever he breathed too deeply, and his robes bore the artistic slash of Pucey's curse like a badge of honor—or stupidity, depending on who you asked.
He found Hermione exactly where he'd expected: hunched over a fortress of books at her favorite table, the one tucked between Ancient Runes and Arithmancy where the dust motes danced in the afternoon light like tiny golden snitches. Her quill scratched across parchment with the focused intensity of someone trying to solve world hunger through superior note-taking.
"Hermione," Harry said, dropping into the chair across from her with perhaps more drama than necessary.
She looked up, and Harry caught the exact moment her disapproval warred with relief. Her eyes went immediately to the tear in his robes, widening slightly.
"Harry! You're—" She cut herself off, schooling her expression into something more neutral. "You're back. I trust the barbaric display of sanctioned violence went well?"
"I won," Harry said, unable to keep the grin off his face. "Against Adrian Pucey. Seventh year."
Hermione's quill stopped mid-word. "Seventh year?"
"Seventh year," Harry confirmed, leaning back in his chair despite his ribs' protest. "Froze him solid after he tried to use some dark cutting curse on me. You should've seen it, Hermione. I used the Aguamenti to soak him first, then—"
"Wait, he used dark magic?" Hermione's carefully maintained disapproval cracked like thin ice. "Are you hurt? Let me see."
Before Harry could protest, she was around the table, her fingers ghosting over the torn fabric. The library suddenly felt warmer.
"It's just a graze," Harry said, his voice coming out rougher than intended as her fingers found the edge of the cut through the tear. "Barely touched me."
"Barely touched—Harry, this needed proper healing!" Her fingers lingered on the wound, and when she looked up, they were close enough that he could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. "You should see Madam Pomfrey immediately."
"I'm fine," Harry insisted, though his argument lost some force when Hermione's hand moved to brush his hair back, ostensibly to check for head injuries. Her touch was gentle, and careful.
"Your hair's a mess," she murmured, attempting to smooth down a particularly rebellious section. "More than usual, I mean."
"Thanks for that vote of confidence," Harry said dryly, but he didn't pull away.
Hermione seemed to realize what she was doing and stepped back quickly, a faint pink coloring her cheeks. "Tell me exactly what happened. Every detail."
Harry launched into the story, demonstrating wand movements as he went. "So first I used Lumos Temporis—that delayed light spell Tonks taught me—and while he was blinded, I hit the platform with Aguamenti."
"Environmental manipulation," Hermione said, her disapproval evaporating entirely in the face of tactical analysis. She'd returned to her seat but leaned forward eagerly. "You turned the dueling platform itself into a weapon."
"Exactly! And then when he got angry and used that Confringo, I used the wood splinters as a distraction with Wingardium Leviosa." Harry demonstrated the wand movement, nearly knocking over her ink pot.
"Multiple simultaneous spells," Hermione breathed, her eyes bright with the particular gleam that meant her brain was cataloging everything for future reference. "That's N.E.W.T. level coordination, Harry."
"Your research helped," Harry said, and watched with fascination as her cheeks went from pink to properly red. "That stuff about Cornelius Blackwood using environmental magic? I never would've thought of it without that."
Hermione ducked her head, fidgeting with her quill. "I just found the information. You're the one who applied it practically."
"Still," Harry said, then couldn't resist adding, "even if you think it's all barbaric."
"It is barbaric," Hermione said firmly, but her lips twitched. "Freezing someone solid is absolutely barbaric. Also brilliant. But definitely barbaric."
"You were worried," Harry said, not really a question.
Hermione's hand found his across the table, squeezing briefly before pulling back. "Of course I was worried. You were facing a seventh year who apparently had no problem using dark magic." Her fingers lingered against his for a moment. "I spent the entire afternoon in here trying not to think about what might be happening."
"But you said you didn't care about the tournament."
"I said it was barbaric. That doesn't mean I don't care if you get hurt doing it." She paused, then added quietly, "I always care if you get hurt, Harry."
Something in her tone made Harry look at her, the way her brown eyes were looking at him, the way her bushy hair was extra wild this time...she was beautiful...Why am I noticing that now? Harry asked himself, and he realised that he must have stared too long because Hermione was going extra pink in her face.
"The other champions were impressive too," Harry said, steering toward safer ground. "Krum basically demolished Anthony Goldstein. Took him down in less than thirty seconds with some modified Stunner that actually cracked the platform."
"Excessive force," Hermione said disapprovingly.
"Fleur was..." Harry searched for the right word. "Artistic. She turned the platform to ice—perfect ice, not rough like mine—and bound her opponent with chains made of light."
"Chains of light?" Hermione's academic interest overrode her disapproval entirely. "That's advanced Charms work,"
"She made it look easy," Harry admitted. "Caught her opponent's wand without even looking."
Hermione frowned slightly. "Did her allure affect you during the match?"
"No," Harry said, remembering the strange sensation of feeling Fleur's magic slide off him. "It was weird, actually. Everyone else was practically drooling, but to me she just looked..." He shrugged. "Talented but arrogant."
Harry could see the relief in her face, and he wondered what that was about, then she asked, "What about Cedric?"
"Competent. Boring, but competent. He just outlasted Marcus Flint through better conditioning and patience." Harry paused. "Actually, he apologized to me after. Said Hufflepuff had been hypocritical."
"Cedric Diggory apologized?" Hermione looked genuinely shocked. "What did you say?"
"Not much. He warned me that beating Pucey made me a target." Harry shifted in his seat, his ribs protesting. "Oh, and Ron won his match."
Hermione's expression went blank like a piece of wood. "Did he?"
"Against Crabbe. Though 'won' might be generous. He basically tripped over his own feet and accidentally ricocheted a Stunner off the barrier into Crabbe's head."
Despite herself, Hermione snorted. "That sounds about right."
"Ginny though," Harry continued, "she was incredible. Took down a Beauxbatons student in thirty seconds flat. Just pure aggression. I've never seen her like that."
"Ginny's always been fierce," Hermione said thoughtfully. "She just usually hides it well. Six older brothers will do that." She studied Harry's face. "You look tired."
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that, but you're obviously in pain." She stood, already packing her books. "We're going to the hospital wing."
"Hermione—"
"No arguments." She grabbed his hand, ostensibly to pull him up. "Madam Pomfrey needs to look at that cut properly. Dark magic can leave traces."
Harry let himself be pulled to his feet, and as they walked, when he tried to fix his hair, only then did he notice that Hermione's fingers had intertwined with his. "When did you become such an expert on dark magic injuries?"
"When my best friend started getting hit with them," she said softly.
As they left the library together, Hermione's hand occasionally brushing his arm to guide him around students, Harry found himself thinking that maybe getting cursed hadn't been entirely bad. Not if it led to moments like this, with Hermione fussing over him in that way that was so uniquely hers—part lecture, part genuine concern, and lately, part something else entirely.
When did things get so complicated? Harry wondered, then immediately thought of Tonks and realized things were about to get much more complicated still.
Slytherin Common Room
"Frozen solid," Marcus Belby said with disgust. "By a fourth-year using Aguamenti. Aguamenti, Pucey. The water-making charm we learned in second year."
"He caught me off-guard," Pucey muttered, his fingers white-knuckled around his mug of pepper-up potion.
"Off-guard?" Cassius Warrington laughed unpleasantly. "You had three years more magical education. You're bigger, stronger, and supposedly better trained. What exactly caught you off-guard? His second and first year spells?"
"You used dark magic," Terrence Higgs added from his position by the mantelpiece. "Actual dark magic against a fourteen-year-old, and you still lost. Do you have any idea how that makes us all look?"
"Like we need dark magic to beat children, apparently," Warrington said. "And still can't manage it."
Draco Malfoy, who'd been watching from his usual chair with glee, finally spoke up. "My father always says that true power isn't about the spells you know, but how you use them." He paused for effect. "Shame you didn't learn that lesson before embarrassing our entire house, Pucey."
Pucey's head snapped up, his face flushing an ugly red. "Watch your mouth, Malfoy. Just because daddy buys you nice things doesn't mean—"
"Doesn't mean what?" Draco asked silkily. "I would never lose to someone three years younger than me. I seem to recall not being the one who needed warming charms on my internal organs."
Pucey shot to his feet, his wand hand twitching. "You little—"
"Enough."
The word cut through the common room like a cutting spell. Severus Snape stood in the doorway, his black robes billowing despite the lack of wind, his expression promising consequences worse than any dark curse.
"Sit down, Mr. Pucey," Snape said softly, which was somehow more terrifying than if he'd shouted.
Pucey sat.
Snape's black eyes swept the room, lingering on each student just long enough to make them uncomfortable. "I am... disappointed," he said finally. "Not merely in Mr. Pucey's performance, though that was certainly disappointing enough. But in all of you."
The room was silent except for the crackling fire.
"Slytherin house has always prided itself on cunning. On ambition. On using whatever means necessary to achieve our goals." His lip curled. "Not on losing to Gryffindors who haven't even taken their O.W.L.s."
Several students shifted uncomfortably.
"Mr. Pucey," Snape continued, his attention focusing on the still-pale seventh-year. "You will accompany me to my office. Now."
It wasn't a request.
As Pucey followed Snape out, Warrington muttered, "Ten galleons says he's getting expelled for using that cutting curse."
"Twenty says Snape's more upset about him losing," Belby countered.
Hufflepuff Common Room
The Hufflepuff common room was warm and golden, filled with the comforting smell of fresh bread from the nearby kitchens. But the atmosphere was anything but comfortable as Cedric Diggory stood before his assembled housemates.
"I'm telling you," Cedric said firmly, "Harry Potter didn't put his name in that Goblet."
"Oh come off it, Cedric," Zacharias Smith said from his position sprawled across a yellow sofa. "The boy lives for attention."
"Does he though?" Cedric challenged. "When has Harry ever sought out attention that wasn't thrust on him?"
"First year," Ernie Macmillan said promptly. "Whatever he did at the end of term got Gryffindor enough points to win the House Cup. Very convenient."
"He nearly died protecting the Philosopher's Stone," Cedric pointed out.
"According to the Professors," Smith countered. "And second year? The whole school found that he is a Parselmouth. He was clearly the one controlling that basilisk until he got caught and had to play hero to cover it up."
"That's ridiculous," Susan Bones said from her corner. "Harry's best friend is Muggle-born. Why would he attack Muggle-borns?"
"And his parents were killed by You-Know-Who," Cedric added. "You really think the son of James and Lily Potter would be opening the Chamber of Secrets?"
"Then who else in Hogwarts speaks Parseltongue?" Justin Finch-Fletchley asked, and there was an edge to his voice—he'd been one of the basilisk's victims, after all. "If not Harry, then who was controlling it?"
Cedric opened his mouth, then closed it. That was the problem, wasn't it? Two years later and they'd never gotten a straight answer. Professor Dumbledore had simply announced at the end of the year that the Basilisk had been the one attacking the students, and that the threat was taken care of, yet, the Professors never told them who was the one letting the Basilisk loose in the School, they had asked of course, they wanted to know who it, but the Professors never gave a straight answer to that question, even their own Head House never told them who it was despite students of her own house being attacked.
"The Professors said the threat was over," Hannah Abbott said uncertainly. "But they never said who was behind it..."
"Exactly," Smith said triumphantly. "They covered for Potter. Just like they're covering for him now with this Tournament business."
"That's not—" Cedric started, but Sally-Anne Perks interrupted.
"Look, maybe Harry didn't open the Chamber. But you can't deny he has a pattern. Every year, something dramatic happens and somehow Harry Potter is at the center of it. That's not normal."
"He doesn't ask for it," Cedric insisted.
"Doesn't he?" Smith asked. "Entering a deadly tournament at fourteen seems like asking for it to me."
"He couldn't have gotten past the Age Line," Susan pointed out. "Dumbledore himself set it."
"Then he had help," Ernie suggested. "Or found some loophole. The point is, Harry Potter can't go five minutes without being special. And now he's taking that specialness into the dueling competition too."
"He won fairly," Cedric said, his patience wearing thin.
"By freezing someone," Smith said dismissively. "Through trickery, Not real skill."
"He beat a seventh-year," Hannah pointed out quietly.
Cedric looked around the room at his housemates—some nodding agreement with Smith, others looking uncertain, a few clearly siding with him but unwilling to speak up.
"Fine," Cedric said finally. "Believe what you want. But I was wrong about Harry, and I admitted it. Maybe the rest of you should consider doing the same."
He left them to their gossiping, knowing he'd changed few minds but hoping he'd at least planted some seeds of doubt.
Beauxbatons Carriage
The Beauxbatons carriage was a study in elegant gossip. The girls had gathered in what they called the salon—a powder-blue room that somehow managed to be both larger and more elaborate than should have been possible in a carriage. They lounged on silk cushions, sipping wine and discussing the day's entertainment.
"Viktor Krum," Amélie sighed dramatically. "Those shoulders."
"Too brooding," Claudette disagreed. "I prefer someone with conversation skills beyond grunting."
"Like Cedric Diggory?" Marguerite suggested with a knowing smile. "I saw you watching him."
"I was analyzing his dueling technique," Claudette said primly, fooling no one.
"What about the young one?" Vivienne asked suddenly. "Harry Potter?"
The room fell silent for a moment, everyone turning to look at her.
"He's fourteen," Amélie said, scandalized.
"I didn't say I was interested," Vivienne defended. "But you have to admit, he's rather... striking. Those green eyes."
"And the way he moved during his duel," Marguerite added thoughtfully. "Like a dancer. A violent, ice-wielding dancer."
"He defeated a seventh-year," Claudette pointed out. "That's... impressive."
They all turned to look at Fleur, who had been silent throughout the conversation, filing her nails with affected boredom.
"What do you think, Fleur?" Amélie asked. "Should we be worried about him? As competition?"
Fleur looked up, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised. "'Arry Potter?" She laughed. "He is a child playing with spells he barely understands. An above-average fourteen-year-old boy, nothing more."
"He seemed immune to your allure," Vivienne pointed out.
Fleur's nail file paused for just a moment. "A fluke. Perhaps he is too young to properly appreciate such things."
"Or perhaps," Marguerite said slyly, "he's more interesting than you're giving him credit for."
"He froze that older boy solid," Claudette added. "With creativity rather than power."
"Tricks," Fleur said dismissively. "When faced with real magic, with the traditions and techniques we have been taught since childhood, his clever tricks will mean nothing."
"If you say so," Amélie said, but she was watching Fleur carefully. "Still, those eyes really are something."
"You are all ridiculous," Fleur declared, standing with a flourish. "Gossiping about children when there are actual competitors to concern ourselves with."
She swept from the room, leaving a wake of expensive perfume and wounded pride.
"She's bothered," Vivienne said immediately.
"Definitely bothered," Marguerite agreed.
"Five Galleons says Potter places higher than her in something before this is over," Claudette offered.
"You're on," Amélie said. "But only because I enjoy taking your money."
Harry Potter
The hidden classroom on the third floor had become as familiar to Harry as his own dormitory—every creak in the floorboards, every cobweb in the corners, every way the dying sunlight slanted through the tall windows at exactly this time of evening. Tonight, though, the space felt different, as if someone had casted a heating charm.
Tonks was already there when Harry arrived, pacing in that restless way that meant she was thinking too hard about something. Her hair was stubbornly brown again, the kind of aggressive normalcy that screamed 'nothing to see here' louder than pink ever could. She'd changed from her Auror robes into muggle jeans and a jumper that looked soft enough to sleep in.
"Heard you nearly turned a seventh-year into a ice sculpture," she said without preamble, but Harry caught the way her lips twitched toward a smile.
"News travels fast," Harry said, closing the door behind him.
"Faster when it involves the Boy Who Lived freezing someone's bollocks off." Tonks turned to face him fully, and her attempted professional expression cracked immediately. "Harry, you absolute madman, you used environmental transfiguration against a seventh-year!"
"It wasn't really transfiguration," Harry protested, but he was grinning. "Just creative application of existing water."
"Creative application—" Tonks laughed, and her hair flickered pink for a moment before she caught herself. "You turned his own sweat into a prison! That's not in any textbook I've ever read."
"Well, you kept saying magic isn't about the biggest spell," Harry said, warming to her enthusiasm. "Pucey had power, but he was predictable. Angry people usually are."
"And the Lumos Temporis worked?"
"Perfectly. He never saw it coming." Harry demonstrated the wand movement. "Thought I was an idiot for using a light charm in a duel."
Tonks shook her head, but she was properly grinning now, her professional mask completely abandoned. "I can't believe you won using mostly first and second-year spells. That's..." She paused, searching for words. "That's everything I've been trying to teach you. Smart magic, not powerful magic."
"The research helped," Harry admitted. "Hermione found this old tournament record about using environmental factors. Though I don't think Cornelius Blackwood ever froze someone's pants to them."
"Probably not," Tonks agreed. Her hair had shifted to a warm rose color without her seeming to notice. "Show me exactly what you did. The whole sequence."
Harry walked through the duel, demonstrating each spell and explaining his thinking. Tonks watched so carefully, her eyes followed him, occasionally asking questions or having him repeat a wand movement. When he got to Pucey's dark cutting curse, her expression darkened.
"He could have killed you," she said quietly. "That spell—that's not even borderline. That's proper dark magic."
"It just grazed me," Harry said, but Tonks was already moving closer, her fingers finding the tear in his robes that Madam Pomfrey's healing hadn't repaired.
"Just grazed—Harry, you could have—" She cut herself off, but her hand remained on his ribs, warm through the fabric. "Are you completely healed?"
"Pomfrey checked me over. Twice, actually, because Hermione insisted." Harry was acutely aware of how close Tonks was standing, he looked at her beautiful pink eyes, he knew she could change her eye color as well, and pink suited her the best.
"Good," Tonks said, but she didn't step back. "That's... good."
The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Her hair had gone fully pink now, vibrant in the fading sunlight.
"Your hair," Harry said softly.
Tonks glanced up at the pink strands falling across her forehead and sighed. "I can't seem to keep it brown around you lately." She sounded frustrated with herself. "It's like my metamorphmagus abilities have developed their own opinion about things."
"Maybe they're being honest," Harry suggested.
Tonks looked at him sharply. "Harry—"
"The first task is in two weeks," he said, changing direction but not really. "Whatever they're planning, it's going to be bad."
"I know." Tonks moved to the window, creating distance between them that felt like miles. "I've been assigned as security for the task. Official capacity. I'll be there."
"Good," Harry said, meaning it. "At least I'll have one person in my corner who actually knows what they're doing."
"You'll have more than that," Tonks said. "Hermione, Neville—"
"But not you," Harry interrupted. "Not really. You'll be there as an Auror doing her job, not as..." He trailed off, frustrated.
"Not as what?" Tonks asked, trying to sound neutral.
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Harry ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier. "What are we doing, Tonks? What is this?"
She turned from the window, and the look on her face was equal parts longing and conflict. "We're training. I'm helping you prepare—"
"Bollocks," Harry said flatly. "We both know it's more than that. Has been for weeks."
"Harry, I'm nineteen. You're fourteen. I'm supposed to be professional—"
"When have you ever been professional?" Harry asked, moving closer. "You taught me to weaponize furniture. You took me to Hogsmeade because I looked sad. You can't keep your hair from turning pink when I'm around."
"Those are all perfectly reasonable—"
"You said you were feeling things you shouldn't be feeling," Harry pressed. "Were you lying?"
"No," Tonks said quietly, and the word seemed to cost her. "No, I wasn't lying."
They stood there, barely a foot apart, and Harry could feel the magic in the air—not cast spells or protective wards, but something between them that made his skin feel too tight and his heart beat too fast.
"We should practice," Tonks said weakly. "Your stance still needs work."
"My stance is fine."
"It's not." She moved behind him, her hands going to his shoulders to adjust his position. "You're still telegraphing when you shift weight."
Her hands were warm through his robes, and when she pressed closer to adjust his elbow, Harry could feel her breath on his neck. The soft press of her breasts against his back made his pulse race.
"Better," she murmured, but her voice had gone rough. "Try the shield charm from this position."Harry raised his wand, but his concentration was shot. All he could focus on was the way Tonks's fingers lingered on his arm, the way her breath hitched when he turned his head slightly toward her.
"I can't," he said.
"Can't what?"
"Can't pretend this is just training." Harry turned around fully. "Can't keep dancing around whatever this is."
"Harry, we shouldn't—"
"Why?" he challenged. "Because of age? Because you're assigned to protect me? Because it's complicated?"
"All of those reasons," Tonks said, but she hadn't moved away. If anything, she'd swayed closer.
"I don't care," Harry said, and found he meant it. The victory high from the duel, the weeks of tension, the way she was looking at him right now. "Do you?"
Tonks opened her mouth to answer, and Harry kissed her.
For a heartbeat, she froze, and Harry thought he'd made a terrible mistake. Then her hands came up to frame his face, and she was kissing him back—properly kissing him, not the careful cheek kisses from before but something real and overwhelming and perfect. A soft moan escaped her throat as their lips moved together, the sound going straight through Harry like lightning.
Harry's hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and Tonks made another small sound that sent electricity down his spine. Her fingers tangled in his perpetually messy hair, and when they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard.
"Harry," Tonks whispered, her forehead resting against his. "We just—I just—"
"Yeah," Harry agreed, still holding her, afraid that if he let go she'd disappear or worse, pretend this hadn't happened.
"This changes things," she said, but she hadn't pulled away. Her hands were still in his hair, her thumb tracing small circles that made thinking remarkably difficult.
"Good changes or bad changes?"
"Complicated changes." But she was smiling slightly, her hair now a brilliant shade of pink that seemed to glow in the fading light. "Harry, if anyone finds out—"
"They won't," Harry said firmly. "We're careful. We're already being careful."
Tonks laughed softly. "Snogging in an abandoned classroom is your definition of careful?"
"It's warded," Harry pointed out, which made her laugh again.
They stood there, holding each other in the growing darkness, both aware they'd crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed. Harry could feel Tonks's heartbeat against his chest, quick and uncertain, could feel the soft press of her breasts against him.
"I should go," she said eventually, but made no move to leave.
"You should," Harry agreed, not loosening his hold.
Another moment passed. Then another.
Finally, Tonks stepped back, but she caught Harry's hand as she did, interlacing their fingers. "This doesn't change the training. You still need to be ready for the first task."
"I know."
"And we have to be careful. Actually careful, not your version of careful."
"I know."
"And Harry?" She squeezed his hand. "That was my first kiss too. Real kiss, I mean."
Harry blinked, surprised. "But you're—"
"Older? Yeah. Turns out being a metamorphmagus who trips over her own feet isn't exactly a boyfriend magnet." She smiled ruefully. "So we're both idiots venturing into uncharted territory."
"Together though," Harry said.
"Together," Tonks agreed, and brought their joined hands up to kiss his knuckles softly. "Merlin help us both."
As they stood there in the abandoned classroom, hands linked, Harry thought about how the day had started with him facing a seventh-year Slytherin with dark magic and ended with him kissing the girl who'd taught him that magic was about more than power.
Definitely the more dangerous of the two, he thought, but couldn't bring himself to care.
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