It became a familiar occurrence. The days sped past, dominated by classes, quiet murmurs that heightened whenever Harry arrived, and the Daily Prophet's ongoing pessimism. Yet, the nights held their own lessons: Viktor's relentless pleas for "Again," Harry's steadfast determination, Hermione's continual assessments, and Neville's steady improvement in ability. Dobby often watched with pride etched on his face, while Winky once came in, wringing her hands and softly chiding them for not wearing proper wool socks.
Viktor lost every time, but he always learned.
He adjusted by incorporating hexes into pauses rather than sequences, making it harder for Harry to counter them outright. He created a second posture to mask his signals and a third to mislead about his reach. He learned to disrupt his casting rhythm, leaving a curse half-formed until Harry committed—then launching it from an unexpected angle. Twice, he forced Harry to use a wand shield; once, he made him choose between enduring a painful thigh slice or giving up his position. Harry chose the slice, wincing from the pain, but feeling good about his decision.
Neville learned to position himself better, to breathe in deliberate counts, and to keep fear at bay while making choices. He grasped the difference between flinching and stepping forward. He mastered two counters that looked like one fluid move and a bind that felt like three. The day he executed the staggered counter perfectly—his wand flowing seamlessly from thought—Hermione cheered in a way that would have astonished Professor McGonagall.
The lake, an ever-present backdrop to their adventures, turned into a collective folklore. Viktor's stories vividly depicted tranquil depths, kelp forests, and a coral throne where a mer-queen judged those who intruded. Occasionally, Harry found himself walking along its shores alone, claiming it was to clear his mind.
On one particularly frigid evening, as he stood by the boathouse with the biting wind and impending snowfall, he let his gaze wander. Rather than resisting the Force, he welcomed it. The lake's surface trembled as if something beneath was taking a breath. He submerged through layers—the cold like shards, past the weeds and silt, and the languorous fish. He didn't force anything; he simply listened.
A response came—not hostile or welcoming, but heavy like a cathedral, reminiscent of a library filled with bone-crafted books. Beneath that, he vaguely sensed a tone—bong—so low it held no melody, only an implication.
As he quietly opened his eyes, his breath fogged and dissipated.
"Don't," Hermione urged softly from behind him, half of her face covered by a scarf, her eyes glimmering with tears from the wind. "Not yet."
"Not yet," he echoed.
Three weeks after their significant duel, Viktor entered the Room of Requirement with a new intensity—not out of fear or caution, but with calculation.
"Tonight, I'll share a spell from Professor Karkaroff," he announced. "Nonverbal. Dangerous. We won't use it to harm. Only… to understand its form."
Hermione stiffened. "If it's illegal—"
"It's not prohibited," Viktor replied steadily. "But it's easy to misuse. You'll stop me if I go too far."
Harry nodded. "Show me slowly."
Viktor complied. The spell was a whisper in action, a fragment of the medium that created balance. Harry grasped it immediately; its intentions were clear and transparency is prone to destruction. They trained on it until its contours were evident, then quickened their practice. In two exchanges, Harry reflected the shape back at Viktor without his wand, adding a quarter twist. Viktor knelt, let out a laugh, and slapped the mat in acknowledgment.
"Good," he said. "I'll incorporate… half of that in the maze."
"The maze?" Hermione exclaimed, her head snapping to him.
Viktor met her gaze. "It will be the third task," he stated matter-of-factly. "Yes? You know this."
Harry and Hermione exchanged glances. Although they hadn't received official word, the tournament's overall structure and the rumors circulating among the faculty had made the conclusion obvious.
"Then you need something else," Harry proposed, outlining an unconventional training drill: how to sense a corridor's angle before seeing it, how to detect pressure like a draft beneath a door, and how to stay calm when sight deceives. Viktor embraced the suggestions as if he had long anticipated this form of knowledge.
They concluded their session feeling bruised, exhilarated, and exhausted enough to forget the outside world's disdain. While gathering their belongings, Neville approached Harry. "I, uh, wrote down the rhythm," he said, offering a piece of parchment. "For sensing the corner before you see it."
Harry glanced at the notes. They were cleanly written in Neville's neat hand. "Keep this," he insisted, returning it. "Make it your own. It won't work for you exactly as it does for me. Adjust the breath count."
Neville swallowed and nodded. "Right."
Dobby suddenly appeared with four mugs of something warm and sweet. "Hot chocolate," he declared with the seriousness of a healer on a mission. Winky followed, fussing with Neville's scarf for the umpteenth time and softly scolding him about drafts while stating that Sir Harry needed allies who weren't falling ill.
They sipped their drinks, shared quiet laughter, and let the Room wrap around them. When they finally parted, Viktor locked eyes with Harry. "You will not participate in the tasks," he stated, not looking for an argument.
"No."
"Then," Viktor said resolutely, "you will teach me to survive."
Harry nodded minimally. "I already am."
Viktor acknowledged him with a singular nod before leaving.
Hermione watched the door close, then turned to Harry with her customary mixture of exasperation, concern, and pride. "You're growing stronger," she remarked. "And becoming more… yourself."
"Which version?" he responded playfully, not pressing for clarification.
They walked back to the tower in a comfortable silence. Midway up a staircase that seemed designed for difficulty, Harry paused. He sensed a faint disturbance, like a mouse in a wall. Peering down the staircase, he took in empty stone and quiet torchlight. The Marauder's Map in his pocket felt warm against his hand.
Hermione noticed the change in his expression. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," he lied. "Not yet."
He planned to check the Map in the common room, tracing footsteps and names. He would sleep later and return to the lake when the wind calmed, standing at its edge, listening for the bell that wasn't a bell.
And tomorrow, when Viktor asked again, Harry would agree.
The wind roared across the grounds, but Harry barely felt it. His thoughts were consumed with Viktor's stories of the lake—villages of merfolk, forests of swaying seaweed, shells that sang like bells. He longed to see it for himself.
Neville was the one who made this possible.
"I've got something that will let us stay underwater for an hour," Neville announced, clutching a small pouch of greenish, slimy seaweed. "It's called Gillyweed. You eat it, and… well, you'll see."
Harry beamed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Neville Longbottom, you're full of surprises."
Hermione crossed her arms, skeptical as always. "And you're sure this isn't poisonous?"
Neville blushed but nodded with certainty. "Absolutely. Professor Sprout keeps samples in the greenhouse. I did my reading."
Viktor smirked, tightening his cloak around his broad shoulders. "I have been in the lake before. I will guide you. But we will not venture near the depths. Not tonight."
The four of them—Harry, Hermione, Neville, and Viktor—stood on the icy shore, quickly changing into swimwear, shivering as the cold air stung their skin. Harry eyed the wriggling Gillyweed with trepidation.
"Bottoms up, then," he murmured, shoving the slimy plant into his mouth. It tasted like seawater mixed with rubber.
The effect was immediate—his throat and chest burned, and suddenly he found himself gasping for breath. He stumbled, clawing at his neck. Then, with a violent gasp, gills opened along the sides of his neck, flaring like odd flowers. He sank to his knees, pressing his face into the lake water and was astonished to find he could breathe. It felt smooth, effortless, natural.
Webbing formed between his fingers and toes. His body felt made for the water.
Hermione and Neville laughed nervously as they underwent the transformation themselves, while Viktor, ever composed, gracefully dove into the water like a shark.
"Come on!" Harry called, his voice bubbling oddly underwater, yet perfectly clear.
The Great Lake enveloped them completely. The surface above faded into silver ripples, replaced by a watery cathedral. Moonlight filtered down in beams that scattered across forests of long, green seaweed. Fish with scales like polished bronze darted past in sparkling schools.
Neville's eyes widened with wonder. He pulled a small, enchanted carriage behind him, gathering plants as if he were still in the greenhouses. "Look at this—Fanged Geranium kelp! And over there are Luminescent Puffballs! This is unbelievable!"
Harry chuckled, blowing a stream of bubbles. "You'll have Professor Sprout running out of space."
They swam deeper. A trio of Grindylows shot out from a patch of weeds, their green, scaly arms reaching out. Hermione squealed and kicked back in surprise. Viktor raised his wand, but Harry was quicker. He extended a hand, sending a pulse of invisible Force through the water, sending the Grindylows tumbling away like rag dolls. They screeched and disappeared into the murk.
Viktor's eyes narrowed. "You… you didn't cast a spell."
Harry shrugged. "Call it a talent."
As they dived deeper, the water grew darker. Emerging from the gloom were shapes—merpeople. With grayish skin, long green hair, and eyes like black pearls, they carried spears tipped with jagged stone.
The four friends froze as the merpeople encircled them like wolves. One shouted something in a harsh, guttural tongue.
"They don't seem happy," Hermione whispered.
Harry felt his temper flare. He clenched his fist, sending a pulse of Force outward. The water pushed back against the merpeople, making their spears waver. Harry's eyes glowed with intensity, and the merfolk understood enough—they backed off, still glaring, but not attacking.
"They respect strength," Viktor murmured. "You showed them."
They swam on, fear giving way to awe. They passed a rock outcropping where dozens of giant clams clung, their shells glowing softly with phosphorescence. Neville eagerly scraped samples into his carriage.
"Be careful," Hermione cautioned. "They'll snap shut on your hand if you're not quick!"
Further ahead, they stumbled upon a sunken statue—an ancient wizard, half-buried in silt, holding a shattered staff. "That must be centuries old," Hermione remarked reverently. "Imagine the history down here."
For Harry, it was more than history; it was freedom. He had navigated every secret corner of Hogwarts, even the Forbidden Forest. But this—this was a new frontier. The water felt alive, humming with energy, and he sensed his connection to the Force expanding in thrilling ways.
When he glanced sideways, he saw Viktor and Hermione holding hands. She leaned in close, whispering something he couldn't catch, and Viktor laughed, a low rumbling sound. Moments later, she placed a light kiss on his cheek, then again on his lips.
Harry turned away, pretending to study a school of fish. Beside him, Neville was too busy stuffing glowing fungi into his carriage to notice.
Every so often, the sharp figure of a merperson slipped by in the distance, spears flashing, eyes always watching.
Viktor slowed and raised his hand. Wait. He pointed downward.
Harry followed Viktor's gaze—and spotted it: a cluster of stone huts on the lakebed. Carved doors, algae-covered walls, nets strung between them. A merfolk village. Shapes swam in and out, their gray bodies moving with remarkable grace. The four intruders floated at the outskirts, half-hidden in the kelp.
"They don't like outsiders," Viktor whispered, his voice oddly muted underwater. "We must not go closer."
But Neville was mesmerized. "Look at those plants! Kelp I've never even seen before. And those shells—those are Whispering Shells, they can only be found near merfolk settlements!" He began to move forward eagerly.
Hermione grabbed his arm. "Neville, no! You might provoke them."
Before Neville could argue, a deep, resonant sound echoed through the water. It didn't come from the merfolk. It was something else.
The lake trembled. Silt billowed around them. Harry felt the Force ripple uneasily within him.
"What is that?" Hermione gasped.
Neville's expression darkened. "Some say it's a creature older than the lake itself. Some say… it sleeps until disturbed."
The sound returned—louder. A booming, resonant tone that rattled their bones. The merfolk scattered, fleeing the village in a rush of bubbles.
Harry's heart raced. "We need to go. Now."
But before they could swim away, the darkness below stirred. Two enormous yellow eyes flickered open in the depths. A vast, ancient shape rose slowly from the silt. Tentacles unfurled, longer than the towers at Hogwarts. Each ended in a fin-like tip, swaying purposefully.
Hermione gasped. "Oh, Merlin—"
The creature roared. The water quaked as if the lake itself was alive. The "bell" was its voice, echoing in their minds.
Neville nearly dropped his plant carriage. "That's not just a story, is it?"
"No," Viktor growled, gripping his wand. "That… is real."
The monster surged upwards, tentacles thrashing. One slammed into the lakebed, crushing merfolk huts like toys. The others lashed outwards.
Harry's instincts screamed. He thrust both hands forward, summoning the Force. An invisible barrier shimmered to life, deflecting a massive tentacle just inches from Hermione's head. The force of the impact nearly shattered his concentration.
"Move!" he yelled, bubbles spilling from his mouth. "Scatter!"
Viktor cast a spell, chains of light bursting from his wand to ensnare one tentacle. The creature shrieked, the sound akin to the tolling of a bell. The chains shattered instantly.
Hermione sliced her wand upward, unleashing a barrage of cutting curses at the writhing limbs. They left shallow marks, nothing more.
"It's not working!" she shouted.
In an unexpected turn, Neville pointed his wand with trembling grim determination. A jet of fire erupted—distorted and strange underwater, but hot enough to make the beast recoil. "Go back!" Neville yelled, his voice shaking. "Go back to the deep!"
The monster's gaze locked onto Neville. It lunged.
Harry reacted instinctively. He reached out with the Force—raw and forceful. He seized the monster's mind. The connection was primal and horrific, akin to clutching a storm with bare hands.
The creature froze, its tentacles thrashing madly. Harry's vision blurred. Its thoughts were instinctual—hunger, rage, endless slumber suddenly interrupted.
"Leave," Harry commanded, his voice booming in its mind. "Sink. Sleep."
For a heartbeat, it fought against him. Then, slowly, its fury receded. The tentacles pulled back. The eyes dimmed. With one final, echoing cry, it sank back into the abyss, disappearing into the void.
Silence enveloped them. Just their heavy breathing and scattered bubbles echoed in the water.
They hung there, trembling as a group.
Hermione touched Harry's arm. "That… wasn't magic. That was you again, wasn't it?"
Harry's eyes grew shadowed. "Mind Arts," he murmured. "Stronger than Legilimency. Stronger than… almost anything I've encountered."
Neville remained shaken, clutching his carriage of plants as if it were a lifeline. "We shouldn't have been here. We—we could have died."
Viktor regarded Harry with a mix of awe and trepidation. "You did what three of us could not. I will not forget this."
They all swam upward, finally breaking the surface. The icy night air was refreshingly sweet. They dragged themselves onto the shore, gasping and soaked.