Harry stepped out of the bath with water clinging to him like memory. Each drip traced the lines of his thighs, his stomach, his calves. The warmth had drained from the air, but the weight of what he had done remained. His orgasm had fogged the mirror, streaked the surface, and smeared itself into the steam. He still hadn't looked at his reflection.
The towel the Room left him was thick and fresh, soft as clouds and smelling faintly of conjured lavender. He dragged it over his chest, slow and mechanical. One arm. Then the other. Then down his ribs. His breath stayed quiet.
When he reached between his legs, the towel brushed too hard. His cock jumped.
He paused.
"Shit," he muttered. "Come on. Not again."
It thickened in his hand before he had finished the thought.
He didn't mean to touch it, but his palm lingered. He felt the weight return, the blood, the hunger that curled into him like a parasite.
"You're pathetic," he said aloud. "You just finished."
The towel slipped from his grip and hit the stone with a wet slap.
Then the wall shifted.
A shimmer crawled across the stone, like light reflecting on water. A shelf unfolded from the brick with silent purpose. One magazine floated forward and landed on the bed with a soft thud.
It gleamed.
Playwitch Hexed Edition: Spellbound Bodies, Vol. 4.
Harry stared. The cover showed a dark-haired witch on a velvet sofa, hips rolling slowly, her wand discarded near her thigh. Her breasts moved in hypnotic arcs. Her mouth was open in a gasp that shimmered with enchantment. The image blinked, then shifted. She turned over and lifted her arse.
The magazine opened itself.
Pages flipped.
Harry sat without thinking. His cock was hard again, throbbing against his stomach, flushed and tight. A bead of precum welled and slid down the shaft.
"Fucking hell," he muttered, breath catching already.
The first spread showed a redhead deepthroating a thick cock, her cheeks bulging, her throat flexing. The next showed cum leaking from a spread, gaping arse. Then two witches together. One rode while the other ground herself down on her face, their bodies locked in rhythm.
Harry's hand wrapped around his cock again. He groaned through clenched teeth.
"Shouldn't be doing this," he said, but he didn't stop.
His thumb smeared the precum across the tip. His fingers tightened. He began to stroke, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on the pages.
The next image struck harder.
A blonde blinked up at him, mascara smeared, tears running down her cheeks. Her mouth was stretched wide around a cock, nose leaking as the man pushed deeper. Her throat convulsed. Her eyes fluttered. Her face said she had stopped resisting.
Harry groaned again.
"Fuck… Fuck," he grunted. His hips lifted off the bed. His hand moved faster. He breathed through his nose, sharp and shallow, each stroke more desperate than the last.
The page turned again.
Now a dark-skinned witch bounced atop a man, her body petite, breasts small and firm, nipples hard from exertion. She slammed herself down on his cock, tight and quick, her muscles trembling with every movement. Her head fell back in a silent scream as her belly bulged from the pressure inside her. Cum spilled from her cunt, running in wet streaks down her legs.
"Merlin," Harry whispered.
His fist pumped faster. Skin slapped against skin. He panted now, breath ragged, the room spinning slightly. The woman on the page kept riding, unfazed, eternal.
His cock twitched hard.
His balls clenched.
He imagined someone walking in. Luna, Hermione, and Ginny.
What would she think if she saw this?
The first thick rope of cum spurted across the open magazine, landing on the witch's chest. The next struck her face. Another hit her stomach. His body seized. His thighs flexed. A grunt ripped from his throat.
"Aah… Fuck Yes."
Each pulse emptied him more. His cock jerked violently, thick with release. The image shimmered briefly under the mess before settling again, unaffected.
He kept stroking, hand slick with the final spurts. More leaked from the tip, dribbling down his fingers and pooling warm in his palm. He didn't look away.
The witch kept bouncing. He swallowed.
The n finally reached for the towel. He wiped his hand and muttered, "Scourgify."
The mess vanished. The magazine closed and floated back to the shelf. The wall folded shut.
The fire crackled in the grate.
Harry sat there for a moment, heart slowing, chest rising and falling in tired rhythm. His limbs felt loose. His skin shone faintly with sweat. The pressure had lifted. His jaw had unclenched. His back no longer ached. His balls were empty.
His robes slid on easily. They felt light. He stood, crossed to the sink, and rubbed his fingers through his hair. His eyes flicked upward.
The mirror had cleared. He still didn't look at it.
He left the Room quietly, long before the first bell rang. The corridor beyond was dim and cold.
The torches along the seventh-floor landing burned low, their flames dulled by the rising grey light beyond the high windows. Stone pressed up around him like an old lung, the air still carrying a trace of warmth from the Room behind him. He didn't look back.
His footsteps were slow but steady. The path wound downward in long, silent turns. He passed the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and descended past rows of shuttered classrooms, the worn edges of portraits still sleeping. One stirred as he passed, its occupant squinting after him, but Harry's gaze didn't shift. He kept walking.
He took the long route, avoiding staircases that might speak or creak too loudly. The castle felt half-asleep, caught between breath. The chill of the stones beneath his boots began to rise through the soles of his boots. His robes rustled faintly with each step.
Somewhere behind the walls, plumbing clanked to life. A suit of armor turned its head with a dry squeal. On the second floor, a pair of Ravenclaws moved out of the lavatory, their whispers sharp with early gossip. They didn't notice him. Or if they did, they didn't speak.
He didn't check the Map.
By the time he reached the first-floor landing, the sounds of breakfast had begun to collect in the air. The flutter of wings. The clink of silverware. The slow swell of voices rising in layered conversation. The world was waking up.
He waited in the alcove by the Charms corridor until the chatter was loud enough to mask his entry. Only when the cutlery began to still did he step out, slipping through the wide doors of the Great Hall like a shadow arriving late for a memory.
Harry entered the Great Hall late on purpose.
He didn't want to be early. He didn't want to sit with Hermione or risk Ron glaring at him across the table. He didn't want to feel the pause in conversation when he walked in, the hush that always followed. So he waited, standing just outside the doors until the noise had begun to level, then slipped inside as the clatter of cutlery started to die down.
He moved without speaking, without looking at anyone. He walked to the far end of the Gryffindor table, near the fire but far enough that no one had claimed it. His boots scraped against the stone. His robes felt too clean. He could still feel the echoes of his body, of what he had done in the Room. Not just once but twice. He felt lighter now, but it wasn't just physical. His thoughts were clearer. His balls felt light too, as if the tension that had been coiled inside him for weeks had finally unspooled.
He sat down.
The food shimmered onto the platters. Roast, vegetables and pumpkin juice. He didn't reach for any of it.
Then the owls came.
Wings stirred the air above. A few feathers drifted down. Dozens of birds swept in through the high windows, circling in tight patterns like they had rehearsed it. Scrolls dangled from claws. Parcels and newspapers.
A thick cluster of owls dropped folded copies of the Prophet across the tables. One landed near his untouched plate with a dull thwack.
He didn't move.
The headline glimmered in charmed ink, flashing gold every few seconds like it wanted to be noticed.
Tears of a Champion: The Boy Who Lived's Secret Struggles
He read the first few lines without meaning to.
He cries nightly for the parents he never knew...
Confides in his radiant Muggle-born classmate, Miss Ranger, who has become his emotional lifeline...
Sources suggest Potter is emotionally volatile, deeply isolated, and increasingly unfit for the pressures of magical fame...
The photo beneath the text showed him slouched in a chair during the wand-weighing ceremony. Shoulders hunched. Eyes dark and ringed with exhaustion. Mouth parted slightly, like he had just exhaled and found the air gone. It was the kind of still Rita Skeeter waited for. The kind that twisted something ordinary into a breakdown.
Across the Hall, voices sharpened. Whispers floated through the air like gnats.
"He cries every night?"
"That Ranger should be Granger in the article, right?"
They were talking like they knew him or cared about him. But to him, the gossip didn't matter. Not anymore.
The magazine he had touched earlier flickered through his thoughts. The witch spreading herself wide. The wand pressed between her breasts like an invitation. The memory scraped him raw, and his face twitched. The heat was gone. The shame returned, colder now. He could still feel the towel. Still hear the sound it had made when it hit the floor.
"Harry."
Her voice was tight behind him.
He didn't look up.
She was already moving toward him, the paper clutched in her fist. Her bag slammed against her hip as she stopped beside him, breath sharp, eyes locked on the headline.
"She twisted everything," Hermione hissed. She waved the Prophet like it had poisoned her. "That cow. She made it sound like we're… like I'm…. like you sob into my shoulder every night."
Harry took another bite. A slow chew. A swallow. He picked up his goblet, drained the last of the pumpkin juice, and set it down with a soft clink.
Around him, the table had begun to stir again. Forks scraped against plates. Conversations resumed in uneasy fragments. But the air hadn't settled. Students kept glancing his way, folding their copies of the Prophet like the words might leap up again and burn.
Down the table, Ron sat hunched over his own paper. He hadn't touched his food. His eyes moved slowly across the page, tracking the ink line by line. His jaw worked with tension.
Then, without warning, he muttered,
"Figures. You always wanted the spotlight. Guess now you've got it."
He didn't look up. Didn't raise his voice. Just dropped the words like they didn't matter. Like they hadn't been meant to land.
Harry didn't flinch. He swallowed, wiped his fingers on the napkin beside his plate, and set his fork down with deliberate care.
"You're starting to sound like your rat."
His voice was calm, devoid of any anger.
Ron stiffened. His eyes lifted. His mouth opened slightly, like he had a retort waiting. But nothing came. The color in his ears rose too fast to hide, blooming red up the sides of his face.
Hermione's gaze flicked between them. Her voice cut through the tension like a lash.
"Ron, don't be a prat," she snapped. "You know it's all rubbish. Every line of it."
Ron didn't answer.
He stared down at the paper. His fingers folded the edge hard, knuckles white.
Harry stood. The bench groaned softly beneath him, then stilled.
He didn't look at Ron. Didn't glance at Hermione. He just turned and walked, each step measured, his shoulders squared.
There was no angst left in his chest. No coil of grief or guilt or rage. Just the clean, empty clarity that followed release.
The great doors of the Great Hall loomed ahead.
From the staff table, Moody's magical eye turned.
It tracked him slowly, rolling in its socket, unblinking. Like it had been waiting to confirm something it already knew
The real eye narrowed. But Moody said nothing.
And Harry didn't stop. The doors opened with a quiet push. He stepped into the corridor to his classes.
The warmth of the Great Hall receded behind him. The torches hissed quietly, casting long shadows down the cold stone. The corridor stretched long and gray in front of him. Each torch flickered low and steady, casting dull light on stone that remembered every footstep.
He didn't look back.
Classes passed like smoke. He arrived, sat in silence, scribbled what he needed, and left before anyone could speak his name.
Hermione still tried. She was persistent like that.
The first note appeared in his Charms book, tucked between Chapter Six and Seven. It was folded neatly, but the crease down the center was uneven, as if her fingers had hesitated before folding. He turned the page without touching it.
In Transfiguration, another note nestled into the corner of his parchment. He pretended not to see it.
In Defense, she placed one beneath his ink bottle. He slid the bottle aside and continued copying the chalkboard. The paper stayed untouched.
She waited after class. She waited by the stairwells. She waited outside the library and at the edge of the Fat Lady's portrait. He always left before she could speak. The Cloak made it easier.
At lunch, he found a note pressed between his roll and his apple. Both remained on the table.
Then came the letter. Heavy parchment. Sealed in red wax. The handwriting curled with unmistakable care.
Mrs. Weasley.
He set it beside his plate. Left it untouched.
Across from him, Hermione fidgeted. Her eyes kept returning to the envelope. Then to him. Then away again.
After a long pause, she pulled her wand from her sleeve.
"Quietus," she muttered.
The surrounding voices dimmed to a blur. The scrape of forks disappeared. The world narrowed to the two of them.
Harry didn't look up.
"That's from Mrs. Weasley," Hermione said. Her voice was tight, barely controlled. "She should be worried about you and Ron. I thought you might still care enough to read something from her."
He didn't respond.
She leaned closer, eyes locked on him.
"You didn't even open it."
Harry sliced a potato, chewed once, swallowed. Then reached for his goblet and drank.
Hermione didn't back off. Her voice sharpened.
"You're not the only one who's angry, you know. Or hurt. But you're not being any less of a prat than Ron. Sitting here, pretending no one's trying to help you."
Harry's hand paused mid-reach.
Then he said, without raising his voice, "If you're writing letters, maybe send one back to her. Let her know how Ron's behaving. She might like to hear what her son thinks of the boy who saved his sister."
Hermione blinked.
Harry kept going. Calm, precise, like he was reciting a list.
"Tell her Ginny's wearing badges that say 'Potter Stinks,' passed out by Malfoy. Maybe mention I pulled her out of the Chamber. From a Basilisk. After she trusted a cursed diary. Maybe I shouldn't have."
Hermione stared at him. Her mouth tightened, but she didn't interrupt.
Harry looked back at his plate.
"She wants to be proud of her children," he said. "Maybe she should know what they're actually doing in Hogwarts."
Then he took another bite and said nothing more.
"Hagrid asked me to find you," she ignored his rant. "He said to bring your Cloak. He wouldn't tell me why, just that it was important. Something private. Something to do with the Tournament, I think."
He looked at her.
Her jaw was tight. Her eyes didn't soften. They searched his face like they were looking for the boy she remembered.
"He's waiting," she said. "You don't have to sass me. But don't ignore him."
Harry held her gaze. Then nodded once. No thanks or apology acknowledging her help and support. Just a nod of approval.
Hermione flicked her wand again. The noise of the Hall returned all at once. Plates clattered and goblets scraped on the table. A burst of laughter rose from the Ravenclaw table.
Harry stood. The bench creaked beneath him. He left the letter on the table.
Hermione watched him go. Her hands clenched around her knees beneath the table. She didn't move until he was gone.
Harry didn't head for Hagrid's hut. He didn't even leave through the front doors.
Instead, he slipped past the staff table while everyone else focused on dessert. No one noticed him cut right, disappearing into the first corridor beyond the enchanted ceiling. He moved quickly, with the kind of quiet you only learn when you stop wanting to be seen.
The halls were mostly empty. A few stragglers passed by, but no one greeted him. No one tried.
He climbed the staircases without thinking, legs mechanical, wand in his sleeve, Cloak folded under one arm. When he reached the seventh floor, he didn't pause to wonder why.
He just walked.
Back and forth. Three times. His steps are deliberate. His thoughts are sharp.
I need a place to train. Alone. Without anyone watching.
The door appeared.
It didn't creak or groan or shimmer into existence. It simply was. Waiting for him like it had been there all along, hidden just out of reach.
Harry stepped inside.
The Room of Requirement welcomed him without resistance.
The air inside snapped against his skin. Dry. Charged. Heavy with something that tasted like copper.
There was no furniture. No bed. No comfort.
At the center of the room stood a single armored dummy. Its silver plating gleamed under flickering torchlight. Runed chalk burned faintly across the stone floor, forming circles, glyphs, and directional paths. Some of them pulsed. None of them was his.
He stepped forward, breathing slowly. The door sealed behind him with a quiet click.
He didn't speak. He didn't warm up.
He raised his wand.
"Expelliarmus."
The dummy's arm tore clean off, hissing as it peeled from the socket like molten wax. The limb landed hard, clattering across the runes.
"Impedimenta."
The left leg exploded backward in a burst of smoke and shrieking metal. Sparks spilled into the air like dying fireflies.
"Protego."
The shield charm flew wide, veering sharply against the wall. Stone cracked. Dust spilled in waves from above. A long, curved gash burned into the bricks like someone had sliced it with a giant blade.
He didn't flinch.
"Stupefy. Expulso. Incarcerous. Ventus. Reducto."
Spell after spell. Wand arcing through the dark. Light cracked and whipped and burst from the tip in violent streaks. Nothing landed clean. Nothing behaved the way it should.
His chest began to heave. His grip slipped once. His elbow locked stiffly on the rebound, but he didn't pause.
He kept going.
He cast until the air turned thick with smoke and magic. Until sweat ran down his spine and soaked the hem of his shirt. Until his legs ached and his wand stung hot against his palm.
By the end, the dummy lay scattered in broken heaps across the floor. A half-arm twitched faintly where it had landed, trapped in a lingering pulse loop that fizzled out like a dying spell.
Harry stood still, breathing shallow and sharp. His hair was damp. His shirt clung to him. He didn't speak or sit down.
Instead, he stepped over the wreckage and raised his wand again.
"Reparo," he muttered.
The dummy reformed slowly. Metal scraped across the floor like dying limbs dragging themselves home. One joint clicked. A shoulder snapped into place. The torso groaned upright. The head spun once, then locked forward with a metallic jerk. Beneath its feet, the runed chalk flickered faintly, like breath caught between spells.
He didn't pause.
The next spell came sharper. Then another. Magic burst against armor, sizzled into stone, carved heat through the stillness. His wand moved without flourish. Every motion was clean. Measured. Stripped of anything but need.
The dummy broke. Repaired. Broke again.
He kept going until his muscles ached and his shoulders burned.
By the time his arm refused to lift again, the torches had burned low. The walls shimmered with heat. Dust curled along the edges of the chalk circle.
A shelf appeared behind him without prompting.
Books waited there now. Titles he hadn't asked for, but which made sense all the same. Magic Under Pressure. Mental Resilience in Duelling. Historical Failures of the Shield Charm. He sat against the wall and started reading, his breath still ragged from the last spell.
He didn't stop until the words blurred.
When his head began to sag, he lowered the book into his lap. The Room didn't dim. It seemed to understand that he wasn't ready to sleep.
He reached into his bag and drew out the Maunderer's Map. The parchment opened easily, like it had been waiting.
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
Ink swirled across the surface. The castle unfolded in dark strokes, staircases blooming, names glowing like soft lanterns. Most stayed near dormitories. A few drifted toward the kitchens. Others wandered alone.
He searched for the one and only.
At 10:36, she appeared. Hermione Granger. Just outside the Room, roaming on the seventh floor.
She didn't knock. Her dot stayed still.
Three minutes passed. Then five. Then ten.
He didn't move. The torchlight along the wall had faded to a dull orange. Shadows pressed into corners. The Map rested against his knees, her name unmoving.
She was trying. Still trying to reach him and still helping him.
That made it hard to stay angry at her.
Ron's betrayal had been noisy, careless, something Harry could shove back against. But Hermione's quiet persistence scraped against guilt, not anger. She hadn't stopped. That was what stung.
He watched her dot again. It hadn't moved, but then shifted slightly. Just a step to the left. Then it stopped.
Another five minutes.
He didn't open the door.
The Room remained wide and still. The Map curled faintly beneath his fingers. His breath stayed even. He didn't want to face her.
But Hagrid was waiting. And she hadn't left.
At 11:01, he stood. The door opened with a slow pull.
She was still there. Her arms were folded, her jaw set. When she met his eyes, something in her face softened, but not much. She didn't ask to come in.
Her voice was low. "Do you want me to come with you?"
He hadn't expected the offer. He had prepared for an argument, a demand, a reminder of what he owed people. But she gave him none of that. Just the question.
He looked at her for a moment. The Cloak hung loose in his hand.
"You remember first year?" he asked.
She hesitated, uncertain where he was going with it.
"The night Malfoy challenged me. Trophy Room," he said. "You followed us out after curfew. Tried to stop us."
Hermione's brow furrowed faintly.
"We ended up outside that trapdoor," he went on. "And when we saw Fluffy, you looked like you might slap both of us."
Her lips parted.
"You said we could be killed," he said. "Or worse, expelled."
The words hung in the air between them, familiar but changed now by time.
She gave a soft laugh, but there was no humor in it. "I remember."
"You came anyway," he said.
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Harry adjusted the Cloak in his grip. "I'll be fine. I'll see you in the morning."
She didn't try to follow.
"Be careful," she said, not quite meeting his eyes.
He gave a single nod. Then stepped past her and pulled the Cloak over his shoulders. The fabric settled over him like a second skin, silent and light.
The door shut softly behind him.
Hermione stayed where she was, listening to the corridor grow still.
Then she turned and walked toward Gryffindor Tower. Her steps were steady, but the silence around her felt heavier than before.
The castle didn't sleep.
The portraits lining the corridor were still, many pretending to sleep. A few watched him silently through half-lidded eyes.
And Harry walked beneath it all, wrapped in invisibility, the Map tucked beneath his arm, alone with the night.
He descended quickly, bypassing the central staircases. The steps tried to shift once beneath him, but he caught the railing and pressed forward without pause. The suits of armor didn't move. The castle seemed to hold its breath.
By the time he reached the Entrance Hall, only a few torches remained lit. Their flames flickered behind glass sconces, casting soft shadows across the worn stone floor. The great doors waited ahead, tall and shut tight.
Harry pushed one open.
The iron hinges let out a slow creak. Cold air spilled into the hall, sharp against his face. He stepped out and eased the door closed behind him.
The stone steps were damp underfoot. Mist curled across the lawn, silver and low, rising in thin ribbons that clung to his boots. The night was cold, not with wind, but with the stillness that came just before frost. His breath came white and quiet.
Far ahead, the windows of Hagrid's hut glowed with soft, golden light. They stood out against the dark like lanterns buried in the hill. Beyond that, the silhouette of the Beauxbatons carriage shimmered faintly in the moonlight. A voice drifted from within, slow and rhythmic. Madame Maxime, speaking in French.
Harry moved toward the hut. The Cloak fluttered slightly in the breeze but didn't pull away. His grip remained tight at the collar. No one else was on the grounds. The Forbidden Forest loomed nearby, branches still and listening.
He reached the door and knocked once.
A narrow gap opened.
"Tha' you, Harry?" Hagrid whispered, squintin' into the dark.
Harry pulled back the Cloak. "Yeah."
Relief softened Hagrid's face immediately. "Good. Got summat ter show yeh. Real important."
He stepped aside, and Harry entered.
The warmth inside hit him like a wall. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and meat. A large stew pot bubbled gently on the hearth, and several mismatched chairs had been pushed aside to clear space near the back door.
Hagrid stood near the fire, his back half-turned. His massive shoulders were hunched slightly, as if trying to shrink down from their usual breadth. His usual shaggy hair had been combed, though not well. Oily strands stuck out at odd angles, and it looked as though he'd tried to tie part of it back but given up halfway. His thick brown beard had been trimmed unevenly, just enough to notice. His moleskin overcoat hung heavy on him, still dusted with ash near the sleeves, and from one of the buttons a crooked flower drooped, its petals slightly singed.
Harry blinked.
"Er—what's the flower for?" he asked, stepping inside.
Hagrid turned just enough to glance at him, then reached up and tapped the flower once, as if he'd only just remembered it was there.
"No reason," he muttered. "Jus' thought I'd brighten things up."
Harry stared at him for a moment. The beard. The hair. The awkward flower. It was obvious what was going on.
"Are you going somewhere?"
Hagrid coughed. "Nothin' like that. Jus' thought I'd take a walk."
"A walk," Harry repeated, flatly.
Hagrid didn't meet his eyes. He gave a vague jerk of the thumb toward the back door.
Harry hesitated. Hagrid was terrible at hiding things. He always had been. Even now, his whole posture practically radiated excitement. It reminded Harry of the time he'd tried to keep Norbert a secret in his first year, mumbling through his beard and shifting from foot to foot like a child about to burst.
He sighed inwardly.
One of these days, Hagrid might actually learn how to keep a secret. But today clearly wasn't it.
Harry followed him toward the door.
The night greeted them again, colder than before. The mist had thickened, curling tighter around their legs. In the distance, something moved behind the tree line. A soft call echoed, muffled by the forest's edge.
Hagrid kept walking toward the paddock, each step heavy on the grass. His excitement was clear in the way his shoulders shifted and the way he tugged once at his coat, like he had forgotten how to hide it.
"They've bin waitin' a while," he said, low and half to himself.
Harry drew the Cloak tighter, adjusted the fabric against his shoulders, and kept close.
Hagrid led the way around the back of the hut, boots crunching wet grass. His lantern swung low, casting wide shadows across the mist. Harry stayed close under the Cloak, his steps timed between Hagrid's. The wind had picked up slightly. It pulled at the edge of the lantern's light and made the trees ripple near the edge of the Forest.
They walked past the pumpkin patch. The castle was far behind now, its windows glowing faintly like distant candles. Ahead, the Beauxbatons carriage sat proud and curved in silver-blue metal, its sides faintly steaming in the cold. Soft hoofbeats clinked faintly from inside the enclosure where the Abraxan horses shifted. The grass was warm from their breath.
Hagrid rapped once on the carriage door with the side of his fist.
There was a pause. Then a rustle.
The door cracked open, and Madame Maxime peered out, her shawl wrapped tightly over her shoulders, slippers barely visible beneath her robe.
"Ah... 'Agrid," she said softly. "Eet is time?"
Hagrid nodded, looking half proud, half nervous. "If yeh don' mind the walk. It's worth it. But I can't say what it is yet."
Maxime studied him for a moment. Then she smiled and said, "You are bein' mysterious, 'Agrid..."
She stepped out and gently took his offered arm.
They walked side by side along the edge of the paddock. Her slippers made almost no sound on the wet ground. Hagrid adjusted his pace, trying to match hers. He said nothing more about where they were going, only offering a low hum when she asked again. "It's summat yeh won't forget, I'll say that. But no tellin'."
Harry followed a few paces behind, invisible. He felt like a shadow trailing strangers. The way Hagrid looked at her, the awkward pride in his step, made it hard to match his earlier annoyance. Hagrid had never learned how to lie, not really, and he clearly wasn't trying to now.
The mist thickened as they moved down the slope toward the forest line. Grass gave way to packed earth. Lantern light from the path ahead flickered faintly through trees.
Then came a sharp burst of shouting, loud and panicked.
Hagrid didn't react. He kept walking.
Harry's ears caught something else next.
A low and thunderous roar.
It rumbled like it had rolled up from the bottom of the earth. Maxime stiffened, her shawl twitching. Another roar followed, higher this time, angrier.
Then came the light. It flared gold against the trees.
They broke through the final line of brambles and stepped into a clearing.
The fire hit first. A great burst of it erupted into the sky, licking through the dark with violent color.
Then he saw them.
Dragons.
Four of them. Each was bound in thick iron chains inside a sprawling enclosure. Wood and metal lined the pit's edges, reinforced with magic that flickered like oil over the surface.
The first dragon was sleek and silver-blue, smoke curling from its nostrils.
The next glimmered green in the firelight.
Then a scarlet blur, its body coiled low.
And finally, the Horntail.
Black, massive, its tail lined with jagged spikes. Its wings snapped with brutal strength even as it strained against its binds. It opened its mouth and screamed again.
The sound shook the ground.
Flames poured across the sky.
Harry didn't move. He watched, breath caught somewhere between his throat and lungs. This wasn't a shock. It felt more like confirmation. A shape he had feared since the Tournament began, now made visible.
He couldn't look away.
Behind the enclosure, handlers darted and shouted. They wrestled with enchanted collars, ropes, and chains, spells flying fast and loud.
"STUNNING SPELLS, ON THREE!" someone bellowed.
A chorus followed, "Stupefy!"
Red light filled the air. The Horntail jolted as half a dozen spells struck it across the chest and legs. It reeled, wings flailing, tail carving a trench behind it. Then it collapsed with a ground-shaking thud.
Harry flinched. But he didn't speak. His throat felt tight. He couldn't tell if it was awe or disgust or pity.
Then a voice called out from the far end of the pit.
"All right, Hagrid?"
Harry turned. A familiar figure approached from the firelight. Stocky and freckled. Hair swept back with soot on his sleeves.
Charlie Weasley.
Hagrid lit up. "Yeah," he said thickly. "They're beautiful."
Charlie adjusted his wand as he came closer. "You'd say that about anything with teeth."
He nodded toward the dragons and gave Maxime a polite smile, but his eyes flicked curiously to her shawl and slippers. "Didn't know you were bringing company."
"Thought she'd like ter see 'em," Hagrid muttered, not looking at her now.
Charlie smirked. "This a date, then?"
Hagrid didn't answer.
Maxime said nothing, her gaze fixed on the Horntail. Her expression was unreadable.
Charlie stepped toward the railing and pointed. "Swedish Short-Snout there," Charlie said, pointing. "Then the Common Welsh. The red one's the Chinese Fireball. Watch her tail, she's nasty. And that one," he added grimly, nodding to the black beast still twitching, "is the Horntail. That one's your favourite, isn't it?"
Hagrid nodded, eyes wide with something that looked like love.
Charlie waved over a few handlers, who rolled over a cart bearing a large, glowing nest.
The Horntail stirred as the eggs were lowered gently beside her.
Hagrid nearly choked on his breath. "Look at 'em. Just look. Ain't they perfect?"
Harry's eyes were locked on the eggs, too.
"Four dragon mums," Hagrid breathed, soft as smoke. "One fer each o' the champions."
Charlie nodded. "Get past them to fetch an egg. That's the task."
Harry stopped listening.
His eyes stayed on the Horntail, the rise and fall of her ribcage, the smoke curling from her jaw. The egg clutch shimmered in the firelight. The heat warped the air above them like a mirage.
He turned before he could hear more.
No one noticed. Charlie was shouting at a handler. Maxime was listening to Hagrid rattle on about flame temperature. Harry slipped away beneath the Cloak, each step careful, silent.
He didn't know if he was glad he'd seen the dragons early. Maybe this way, he wouldn't freeze in front of the school. Or maybe he would anyway. And maybe that was fine.
The Cloak settled around him as he slipped from the clearing, boots pressing into the damp grass without sound. The mist clung low, silver and close, swallowing his shape even before the forest did. He walked quickly, careful not to look back.
Halfway to the tree line, something struck him.
Hard and fast, like a shoulder or maybe a chest. His breath caught.
"Ouch. Who's there?"
Harry dropped into a crouch, the Cloak still wrapped tight. The voice rang faintly familiar. Footsteps shifted in the grass above him. A figure stood blinking into the dark, turning slowly.
Karkaroff.
He rubbed at his shoulder and muttered something in a language Harry didn't catch. Then he looked toward the dragons. His posture sharpened. He crept forward, slow and quiet.
Harry stayed low and let him pass.
No part of him was surprised. Not by Karkaroff sneaking around dragon enclosures. Not by the fire behind him, still burning against the dawn. Not by the silence waiting in the spaces where adults were supposed to protect.
He turned and ran.
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A full crossover with Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss will begin after the First Task. The fic has just reached the First Task in Goblet of Fire, and Loona has already been bred by Harry(Might include the pups by the end of the year).
Suggest some plot ideas if you have any. If your idea fits the direction of the story, I'll do my best to integrate it. Expect three smut scenes every two chapters. Going full AU in the next couple of chapters. Hellhound Harry is here, baby!
Read 8 chapters and 33.8k words ahead now on p*treon.c*m/OmniNymph, or grab it from my K*-fi shop at k*-fi.c*m/OmniNymph. By the way, you've already read 28.04k words of this fic!
Two new chapters are coming in the next 4 days.