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Harry arrived at the enchanted tent after slipping away from Potions, grateful to escape Snape's withering glare. Inside a room—desks pushed against walls, replaced by a long velvet-covered table where the judges would sit. Another smaller table draped in velvet stood in the center, presumably for the wand weighing itself.
The other champions had already arrived. Cedric paced near the window, looking every inch the proper champion in his Hogwarts robes, occasionally running nervous fingers through his hair. Viktor Krum slouched in a corner, his heavy brows drawn together in a perpetual scowl that somehow made him look more intimidating. And then there was Fleur Delacour, examining her reflection in a window, tossing her silvery-blonde hair over her shoulder.
At least one of us looks like they belong here, Harry thought wryly.
"Ah, here he is! Champion number four!" Ludo Bagman's booming voice shattered the tense silence. The former Quidditch player bounded across the room, seizing Harry's arm as if they were old friends. "Nothing to worry about, my boy—just a little ceremony for checking your wands, make sure they're in good working order for the tournament! The experts are here, and then there'll be a small photo shoot."
Every head turned toward Harry, making him wish for his invisibility cloak. Fleur Delacour's gaze was particularly cold as she looked him up and down.
"I still do not understand 'ow zey allow zis little boy to compete," she said to no one in particular, her accent thick with disdain. "Ze tournament is meant for proper wizards and witches."
Harry felt a flicker of irritation. Since touching the Goblet, he found himself less inclined to endure such comments silently.
"Perhaps the Goblet saw something the rest of you missed," he replied coolly. His voice carried in the quiet room, surprising even himself with its calm assurance.
Fleur's perfect eyebrows arched in surprise. Her posture straightened, and Harry felt a sudden wave of what he recognized as Veela allure—a compulsion to stare, to please, to move closer to her. But he just shrugged it off like it was a fly.
Harry noticed Cedric had stopped pacing, his eyes slightly unfocused as he gazed at Fleur. Even Krum seemed affected, his scowl softening as he shifted his weight toward the French witch.
Fleur's eyes widened slightly, clearly noticing Harry's immunity. Her lips parted to say something, but the classroom door burst open with a bang.
Rita Skeeter swept into the room in a flurry of magenta robes, acid-green quill already hovering beside her. A paunchy photographer with a large black camera shuffled in her wake, trailing smoke from his flash.
"What a cozy little gathering!" she exclaimed, her gaze fixing on Harry like a hawk spotting prey. "The four champions together at last!" Her jeweled spectacles glinted as she assessed each of them, her painted nails clicking against her crocodile-skin handbag.
Before anyone could respond, she had crossed the room to Harry. "I wonder if I might have a little word with Harry before we start?" she asked Bagman, though her lacquered nails were already closing around Harry's arm. "The youngest champion, you know... add a bit of color to the piece..."
"Actually," Harry said, deliberately removing her hand from his arm, "I'm not interested in providing color, quotes, or any other contributions to your particular brand of creative writing."
Rita's smile hardened. "Oh, come now, Harry. The public wants to know about the Boy Who Lived becoming a champion!"
"The public might want accuracy for a change," Harry replied. "I've read your work, Ms. Skeeter. You seem to treat facts as... optional accessories rather than necessities."
A flash from the camera caught Harry's unimpressed expression. Rita's smile became predatory. "Such spirit! We could do the interview anywhere, Harry. Perhaps that broom cupboard—"
"I believe we are ready to begin," Dumbledore's voice cut through the tension as he entered alongside the other judges. His blue eyes registered the situation immediately. "The Weighing of the Wands is a traditional component of the Triwizard Tournament. Mr. Ollivander has kindly agreed to examine each wand to ensure they are in full working order."
Mr. Ollivander stepped forward from a shadowy corner Harry hadn't noticed, his silvery eyes as unnerving as the day Harry had purchased his wand.
"Mademoiselle Delacour, perhaps we'll begin with you," the wandmaker said softly.
Harry watched as each champion presented their wand in turn. Fleur's contained a Veela hair—"From my grandmother," she said proudly—which explained much about her inherent magic. Krum's was Gregorovitch-made, sturdy and unyielding like its owner. Cedric's wand was polished to a gleaming shine, well-maintained and reliable.
When Harry's turn came, Ollivander spent the longest time with his wand, reminiscing about its creation; thankfully, he didn't mention its evil twin.
After the ceremony concluded, Rita Skeeter circled the champions like a colorful vulture. She cornered Fleur first, notepad at the ready.
"So, Miss Delacour, how does it feel representing your school as a... quarter-Veela?" The emphasis she placed on the last words made them sound distinctly unsavory. "Does your heritage give you an unfair advantage over the purely human competitors?"
Fleur's face flushed. "My 'eritage is not relevant to my abilities as a witch," she replied stiffly.
Rita's quill scribbled excitedly. "And yet you use your grandmother's hair in your wand? Interesting choice for someone claiming not to rely on her... creature attributes."
Moving on quickly, Rita positioned herself between Cedric and Harry. "Mr. Diggory, how does it feel to share the Hogwarts champion spotlight? Overshadowed by a younger, more famous student despite your qualifications?"
Cedric's jaw tightened, but his response was diplomatic. "Harry and I both represent Hogwarts. The unusual circumstances don't change that."
"No feelings of resentment? No desire to prove yourself the true Hogwarts champion?" Rita pressed.
"Sorry to disappoint you," Cedric said with a polite smile, "but no."
Frustrated, Rita turned to Krum. "Viktor! Your team's tactics at the World Cup were described by some as borderline illegal. Will you be bringing that same... aggressive approach to the tournament?"
Krum glowered at her but said nothing, which only seemed to excite her quill further.
Finally, Rita returned to Harry, who had been trying to edge toward the door. "Harry, darling, just one comment on how it feels to face these tasks without proper training?"
"I'd love to give you a comment," Harry replied with a polite smile, "but I'm afraid my publicist advises against speaking to journalists who mistake fiction for journalism. Better luck with the next child celebrity."
Rita's smile turned nasty. "Perhaps you'd rather comment on the company you're keeping as a champion? A famous Quidditch player with questionable ethics, the pretty-boy Hufflepuff, and..." her voice dropped to a stage whisper, "a half-breed Veela who's clearly more creature than witch?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Fleur spun around, her face flushed with anger and humiliation. Her hand moved toward her wand pocket.
Harry reacted instinctively. Focusing on the shadow beneath Rita's garish heels, he willed it to shift—just slightly, just enough.
Rita took a step forward and inexplicably lost her balance, pitching forward with a shriek. Her handbag flew open as she fell, spilling its contents across the floor—including several notebooks and her acid-green quill, which was still writing furiously without benefit of ink.
"My Quick-Quotes Quill!" she gasped, lunging for it as Dumbledore picked it up, examining it with polite interest.
"Fascinating," the Headmaster remarked. "I was unaware that you were using such a... creative transcription tool for a factual piece about the tournament." His blue eyes had lost their usual twinkle. "Perhaps it would be best if you conducted future interviews with proper documentation methods, Ms. Skeeter. In fact, I believe this concludes today's official proceedings."
The dismissal was gentle but unmistakable. Rita gathered her belongings, shooting venomous glances at Harry, who maintained an expression of innocent concern.
As the journalist stormed out, Harry caught Fleur watching him with a thoughtful expression, her earlier contempt replaced by something like curiosity.
The champions filed out of the classroom together, an awkward silence hanging between them. Harry was nearly to the gate when he felt a light touch on his arm. Turning, he found Fleur beside him.
"What did you do to zat horrible woman?" she asked, her French accent more pronounced in her hushed tone. Cedric and Krum slowed their pace, clearly listening despite pretending not to.
Harry met her piercing blue eyes with an innocent smile. "I have no idea what you're talking about. People trip over their own feet all the time."
"I saw ze shadows move," Fleur insisted, her gaze searching his face. "Just before she fell."
Harry maintained his expression of polite confusion. "Shadows? How unusual."
Fleur narrowed her eyes. Harry knew she wanted to know more, but why ruin the surprise?
Perhaps facing a dragon won't be the most challenging part of this tournament after all, Harry thought as the shadows around his feet quietly settled back into place.
One Week Later
The morning air felt crisp and clean as Harry, Hermione, and Neville made their way across the grounds toward Greenhouse Three. Frost crunched beneath their shoes, and their breath formed small clouds that dissipated in the November chill. Harry's mind kept cycling between thoughts of dragons, shadow magic, and the peculiar new relationship developing between himself, Hermione, and Ginny.
"Professor Sprout keeps the Greenhouse Three locked most days," Neville explained as they approached the glass structure. "She says some of the plants in here are too temperamental for regular classes."
Harry nodded absently, trying to focus on what they were doing rather than the first task looming before him. "And she's okay with us being in here?"
"I've got written permission for my independent project," Neville said, producing a slightly crumpled note from his pocket. "She trusts me with the plants."
The confidence in Neville's voice caught Harry's attention. It was so different from the nervous stammer that usually characterized his speech in classes. Here, surrounded by plants, Neville Longbottom was in his element.
Hermione seemed to notice it too. "It's brilliant that you've found something you're so good at, Neville."
A flush of pleased embarrassment colored Neville's round face as he unlocked the greenhouse door. "Gran wanted me to focus on Transfiguration or Defense, like my dad. But Professor Sprout says I have the best touch with difficult plants she's seen in years."
"The Frigidus Nebula is in the back corner, away from the heat-loving specimens," he explained, navigating around a tray of what looked like miniature snapping dragons. "They're a bit sensitive about temperature."
Harry followed, careful not to brush against any of the more aggressive-looking plants. "Have you ever seen one used against actual dragon fire?"
"No, but my gran has," Neville replied, stopping before a cluster of silvery-blue plants that resembled ferns covered in frost, despite the greenhouse's warmth. "My great-uncle Algie brought a cutting back from Romania after visiting the dragon sanctuaries. Gran says the handlers all carry it."
Hermione immediately went into research mode. "What makes it effective against dragon fire specifically? Is it just the cold properties, or is there a magical component that counteracts the particular magical nature of dragon fire?"
Neville beamed at the scholarly question. "Both, actually. The leaves contain a magical compound that specifically neutralizes the magical component of dragon fire. It's not just ordinary fire, you know—it's got magical properties that make it burn hotter and resist normal flame-freezing charms."
Who would have thought Neville knew so much? Harry marveled silently. All these years, and Harry hated to say it, but he never really bothered to spend much time with Neville.
"How do we harvest it?" Harry asked, eyeing the delicate-looking fronds.
"Carefully," Neville emphasized, producing a small silver knife from his herbology kit. "You have to cut at the stem junction, there—see where it forms a small diamond pattern? And you can't touch the leaves with your bare hands or they'll lose potency."
He demonstrated, delicately slicing a frond and catching it in a dragonhide glove before passing it to Hermione, who placed it in a preserving jar she'd brought.
"Now you try, Harry," Neville encouraged.
Harry took the knife, trying to mimic Neville's precise movements. His first cut was slightly off, and the plant shuddered in what seemed like indignation.
"Sorry," Harry muttered to the plant, feeling slightly foolish for apologizing to vegetation.
"That's all right," Neville said encouragingly. "Plants respond to intention. Just be more clear with your movements."
Harry's second attempt was more successful, and soon they had collected a small jar of the silvery fronds.
"Now what?" Harry asked, carefully securing the lid on the jar.
"We should test it," Hermione suggested. "To make sure it works the way we expect."
Neville nodded. "There's a workbench over there where Professor Sprout lets me conduct experiments."
They moved to the bench, where Neville placed a single frond in a shallow stone dish. "When you need to activate it, you simply crush or tear the leaf. The colder the environment, the more powerful the effect."
Harry picked up the frond with a gloved hand. "So in theory, if I'm facing a dragon, I just crush these and throw them?"
"More or less," Neville confirmed. "The mist will spread about ten feet in diameter from the point of release. It won't harm the dragon, but it will neutralize its fire temporarily and might confuse its sense of smell."
"Let's see it in action," Hermione suggested.
Neville nodded, taking out his wand. "I'll create a small controlled flame first." He pointed at another stone dish. "Incendio," he said, and a small fire bloomed in the dish.
"Now crush the leaf, Harry," Neville instructed.
Harry squeezed the silvery frond between his fingers. Immediately, it crumbled into a fine, glittering dust that swirled up in an expanding cloud of frigid mist. The temperature around them plummeted, and Harry could see his breath more distinctly. When the mist contacted the flames, they sputtered and died with a soft hiss.
"Brilliant," Harry breathed, watching frost patterns form on the edges of the stone dish.
"And it doesn't just work on the flames," Neville explained. "It creates a sort of barrier in the air that neutralizes dragon fire before it fully forms. Like an anti-fire shield in the air itself."
Harry already thought of many different ways he could use this. The Frigidus Nebula could buy him precious seconds of protection. Combined with his Firebolt...
A stray thought crossed his mind. "I wonder..."
"What is it?" Hermione asked, noticing his thoughtful expression.
"I was just thinking about my shadow magic," Harry said slowly. "Wondering if there's a way to combine it with the plant somehow. Shadows and cold seem like they might work well together."
Neville looked confused. "Shadow magic?"
Hermione and Harry exchanged a quick glance.
"It's a new form of magic Harry's been learning," Hermione explained vaguely. "For the tournament."
Neville nodded, accepting this without question. "Well, cold and darkness do have natural affinities in magical theory. Professor Sprout mentioned once that many nocturnal plants have cooling properties."
Harry filed this information away for later consideration. It might be worth experimenting with, though not now, with the first task so close.
"Speaking of the tournament," Hermione said, checking her watch, "we should probably get back to practicing the Summoning Charm. We've only got four days until the task."
Harry nodded, carefully packing the jar of Frigidus Nebula into his bag. "Thanks for this, Neville. Really. This could make all the difference."
Neville smiled, his usual awkwardness returning now that they were moving away from his area of expertise. "Happy to help. If you need more, just let me know."
As they walked back toward the castle, Harry found himself appreciating Neville in a new light. How many other talents and strengths had he overlooked in the people around him? How much more was there to Neville, or the other students he barely knew?
"You're getting quite good with the Summoning Charm," Hermione said, interrupting his thoughts. "Yesterday you managed to summon that dictionary from the other side of the classroom."
"A dictionary isn't quite the same as a broomstick all the way from the castle," Harry pointed out.
"No, but the principle is the same," Hermione insisted. "It's about your focus and intent. The distance doesn't matter as much as your clarity of purpose."
Harry nodded, though doubt still gnawed at him. "We'll practice more this afternoon?"
"Absolutely," Hermione agreed. "And maybe later, we can try some experiments with your shadow magic and the Frigidus Nebula."
For the first time in days, Harry felt a glimmer of genuine hope about the first task. Between his flying skills, Neville's plant, and his developing shadow abilities, he might actually have a chance against a dragon.
Not great odds, perhaps, but better than he'd had yesterday. And for now, that would have to be enough.
❾¾
❾¾
The Gryffindor common room was bathed in the warm glow of firelight as Harry, Hermione, and Ginny huddled around a table in the corner, surrounded by a fortress of books and parchment. They'd spent the last hour discussing strategies for the first task, voices kept low to avoid attracting attention.
"I still think the Disillusionment Charm could be useful," Ginny argued, tapping a passage in Advanced Defensive Magic. "Dragons rely on sight more than most people realize."
Hermione shook her head. "Too difficult to master in four days. Besides, it wouldn't hide Harry's scent."
Harry was about to weigh in when the portrait hole swung open, and Ron stepped into the common room. Their eyes met briefly before Ron looked away, his jaw tightening. Harry felt the familiar twist of hurt and resentment in his chest.
For a moment, it seemed Ron would follow his recent habit of pretending Harry didn't exist. But something—perhaps the sight of his sister sitting so close to Harry—made him change course. He approached their table, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
"Planning your next interview with Skeeter?" Ron asked, his voice carrying just enough for nearby students to glance over.
Harry's fingers tightened around his quill. "Just studying."
"Right. Studying." Ron's eyes flicked between Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. "Interesting study group you've got."
"Is there something you want, Ron?" Hermione asked coolly.
Ron ignored her, focusing on Ginny instead. "Mum would be interested to know you've switched allegiances."
Ginny's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I haven't switched anything. And my friendships aren't your business."
"Friendships. Is that what we're calling it?" Ron's mouth twisted into a sneer. "First Hermione, now my sister. Collecting Weasleys, Potter?"
Harry felt a surge of anger so intense it made his vision darken at the edges. The shadows cast by the fireplace seemed to stretch toward him, responding to his emotion. He took a slow, deliberate breath.
Control it. Don't let it control you.
"That's enough, Ron," he said, keeping his voice level despite the magic pulsing beneath his skin.
"Oh, I'm just getting started," Ron shot back. "It's not enough you entered the tournament for more fame. Now you're dragging my sister into whatever game—"
"I am not a piece in anyone's game," Ginny cut in, her voice like a whip. Several students nearby flinched. "And if you paid any attention instead of wallowing in jealousy, you'd know Harry didn't put his name in that goblet."
Ron's ears turned scarlet. "Taking his side over family? That's low, Gin."
"Family?" Ginny stood up, her small frame vibrating with anger. "Family supports each other. Family believes each other. Harry's been more family to me than you have lately."
Harry noticed the shadows around their table deepening, responding to his turbulent emotions. The firelight seemed dimmer now, darkness pooling unnaturally at his feet. He focused on his breathing, trying to center himself.
Push it down. Not here. Not now.
"You don't understand what's happening," Ron said, gesturing at Harry. "He's changed. Ever since his name came out of that goblet—"
"Yes, he has changed," Hermione interrupted, closing her book with a decisive snap. "He's facing a deadly tournament without his best friend's support. Of course he's changed."
The common room had gone quiet, and other students were watching the confrontation.
With tremendous effort, Harry reined in his magic. The darkness receded slightly, though the room remained dimmer than it should have been.
"I didn't ask for any of this, Ron," Harry said quietly. "Not the tournament. Not the attention." A muscle worked in his jaw. "Not having my best friend call me a liar."
Something flickered across Ron's face—doubt, perhaps, or regret. But it was quickly replaced by stubborn resentment.
"You've got your new friends now anyway," Ron muttered, glancing at Ginny. "Just don't expect me to pretend everything's normal."
"Nothing about Harry's life has ever been normal," Ginny replied, her voice softening slightly. "That's not his fault." She hesitated, then added, "We're still your friends, Ron. When you're ready to remember that."
Ron stood awkwardly for a moment, as if searching for a parting shot but finding none. Finally, he turned and stalked off toward the boys' dormitory stairs.
As he disappeared, Harry felt the pressure in his chest ease. The shadows around them gradually returned to their natural state. He'd managed to keep his emotions—and his magic—in check, if only barely.
"You okay?" Hermione asked softly, placing her hand over his.
Harry nodded, aware that several students were still watching them. "Better than last time."
Ginny smiled approvingly. "You didn't even make anything explode. I'm impressed."
Despite everything, Harry found himself smiling at her joke. It was strange how Ginny's presence seemed to lighten even the tensest moments.
"He'll come around," Hermione said, though she didn't sound entirely convinced.
Harry wasn't sure he believed it either, but he nodded anyway. Usually, Ron's friendship was something he valued, but since the night he had made fun of his parents, Harry had told himself that he would never allow Ron to be his friend again. He had not told Hermione and Ginny about it because he knew the two would hex until the end of the year; the thought brought him a smile.
Sleep refused to come. Harry had been lying in his four-poster bed for what felt like hours, listening to Neville's soft snores, Seamus's occasional mumbling, and the conspicuous silence from Ron's bed. The first task loomed in his mind like a dragon—massive, deadly, and impossible to ignore.
Every time he closed his eyes, his imagination conjured new and increasingly horrific scenarios: being roasted alive while the entire school watched; forgetting the Summoning Charm in his panic; his Firebolt arriving too late, splintered into kindling.
After his fifth attempt to punch his pillow into a more comfortable shape, Harry gave up. He slipped his glasses on, grabbed his wand, and padded silently down to the common room. Perhaps the change of scenery would quiet his racing thoughts.
The common room was dimly lit, the fire reduced to glowing embers that cast long shadows across the worn carpet. Harry almost missed the small figure curled in the oversized armchair by the hearth—until a flash of copper hair caught the firelight.
"Ginny?"
She looked up, startled, then relaxed when she recognized him. "Can't sleep either?"
Harry shook his head, crossing to join her. She was wrapped in a handmade blanket that he recognized as one of Mrs. Weasley's creations, her knees drawn up to her chest. The firelight softened her features, making her look younger than she had during their confrontation with Ron.
"Dragon nightmares?" she asked with remarkable perception.
Harry smiled ruefully as he sank into the chair opposite hers. "How'd you guess?"
"You've got that 'I'm-about-to-face-certain-death' look," she replied, a hint of teasing in her voice.
Harry's smile became more genuine. Somehow, Ginny's lighthearted approach to his mortal peril was more comforting than Hermione's careful planning or Hagrid's blind confidence.
"At least with the basilisk, I only had the whole school thinking I was a murderous heir," Harry sighed. "Now they think I'm a lying, cheating, attention-seeking prat."
"Technically, they thought you were a lying, murderous heir back then too," Ginny pointed out. "You're just adding 'cheating' to your résumé of fictional crimes."
"When you put it that way, I'm quite the accomplished villain."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the embers pulse with fading heat. Harry felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.
"Charlie sent me a letter yesterday," Ginny said suddenly. "I didn't mention it earlier because Ron was hovering around."
Harry perked up. "About the dragons?"
Ginny nodded, pulling a folded parchment from her pocket. "He doesn't know I'd tell you, of course. Thinks I'm just interested in his work." Her lips curved in a mischievous smile. "Which isn't entirely untrue."
She unfolded the letter and moved to perch on the arm of Harry's chair, close enough that he could smell the faint floral scent of her hair.
"Here," she said, pointing to a paragraph. "He says dragons have a blind spot—just below the jawline, where the scales are thinner." Her finger traced down the page. "And they're slower to turn left than right, because of the heart placement."
Harry leaned in, scanning the letter eagerly. "This is brilliant, Ginny."
"There's more," she continued. "Female nesting dragons focus most of their attention on their eggs. If you create a distraction away from the nest, you might have a better chance of getting... whatever it is you need to get."
"And all four dragons are females," Harry remembered from Hagrid's midnight tour. "This could be really useful."
Ginny folded the letter, but remained perched on the arm of his chair. "Charlie loves them, you know. Says they're misunderstood."
"That sounds disturbingly like Hagrid," Harry remarked.
"Must be a dragon handler thing," Ginny agreed. "Charlie came home once with his eyebrows singed completely off, clothes smoking, and still couldn't stop talking about how 'magnificent' the Ridgeback had been."
Harry chuckled, then sobered. "I'm not sure I share their appreciation."
"You will," Ginny said confidently. "Once you're not facing one in combat. They're actually incredible creatures."
Harry tilted his head, studying her. "You've seen them?"
"Charlie snuck me into the Romanian sanctuary once when Mum wasn't looking," Ginny admitted. "I was nine. It was the most terrifying and amazing day of my life." A shadow crossed her face. "Until my first year here, anyway."
The mention of her traumatic experience with Tom Riddle's diary brought a heaviness to the air between them. Harry reached out instinctively, covering her hand with his.
"I've been thinking about that, actually," he said quietly. "About our... connection to him. To Voldemort."
Ginny's hand tensed beneath his, but she didn't pull away. "What about it?"
"I'm growing stronger, I'm able to do magic that I wasn't able to do before since I touched the Goblet of Fire the night my name came out of that bloody thing," Harry hesitated and Ginny's eyes widen a little. "Sometimes I wonder if they're connected to him somehow. If touching the Goblet just... unlocked something that was always there. Something from him."
He hadn't voiced this fear to anyone, not even Hermione. But here, with Ginny—who understood what it meant to have Voldemort touch your mind—the words finally found their way out.
Ginny turned her hand over, interlacing her fingers with his. "I don't think so, Harry."
"How can you be sure?" he pressed.
"Because I know what his magic feels like," she said simply. "Cold. Empty. Like a void trying to pull you in." Her eyes held his. "Your magic, it feels warm, always has. It's Safe."
Harry blinked in surprise. "You can feel it?"
"Can't you feel mine?" she countered.
He focused on their joined hands, on the pleasant hum of energy where their skin touched. Now that she mentioned it, he could sense something—a vibrant, fiery current that seemed to complement his own magic rather than clash with it.
"It's like... resonance," he realized. "Like what you were explaining about magical compatibility."
Ginny smiled, pleased. "Exactly. This is what I was trying to tell you and Hermione. Some magical signatures naturally harmonize." She squeezed his hand. "Yours and mine. Yours and Hermione's."
Their eyes met, and Harry became acutely aware of how close they were, of the firelight playing across her features, turning her hair to living flame. He leaned forward slowly, giving her time to pull away.
She didn't.
Their lips met in a gentle kiss that quickly deepened as Ginny shifted from the arm of the chair into his lap. Harry's hand found her waist, steadying her as she pressed closer. Unlike his first kiss with Hermione, which had been charged, this kiss felt like homecoming—familiar and right, as if some part of him had been waiting for this moment.
Harry could feel his magic intertwining with Ginny's, creating something new and powerful between them.
Ginny's hands slid into his hair, her body arching against his as the kiss grew more heated. A soft sound escaped her throat, sending a jolt of desire through him. His hand slipped beneath the edge of her night shirt, finding the warm skin of her lower back.
The portrait hole could open at any moment. Anyone could come downstairs. These thoughts registered in Harry's mind, but felt inconsequential compared to the intoxicating reality of Ginny in his arms.
It was only when her hand began to wander beneath his own shirt, fingertips tracing the waistband of his pajama bottoms, that Harry reluctantly broke the kiss.
"We should stop," he whispered against her lips, even as his body screamed at him for being an idiot.
Ginny made a sound of protest but didn't argue. "Too public?"
Harry nodded, breathing heavily. "And..."
"And you're thinking of Hermione," Ginny finished for him, no accusation in her voice.
"Yes," he admitted. "Not that I don't want..." He gestured vaguely between them, words failing him.
Ginny smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before sliding back to perch on the arm of the chair. "I understand. We're still figuring this out." She straightened her shirt, adding with a wicked grin, "Besides, when we do go further, I'd like Hermione to be there too."
Harry's brain short-circuited momentarily at the image her words conjured. "You're... really okay with all this? With sharing?"
"I grew up with six brothers, Harry," Ginny said dryly. "Sharing is practically my religion." Her expression softened. "Besides, Hermione's special to me too, you know. Not exactly the same way you are, but... important."
Ginny grinned at Harry's flustered expression. She'd always enjoyed catching him off-guard, and the adorable way his eyes widened told her she'd succeeded spectacularly.
"You should see your face right now," she laughed softly, her eyes never leaving his.
But as her laughter faded, something shifted in her gaze—a smoldering intensity that made Harry's breath catch. Without breaking eye contact, Ginny slid from the arm of the chair, not back into his lap as before, but down to her knees between his legs.
"Gin, what are you—" Harry started, his voice suddenly hoarse.
"Shh," she whispered, her hands resting lightly on his knees. "I know we should wait for... everything. But I've been thinking about this for longer than you know."
Her fingers traced small, maddening circles on his pajama-covered thighs, gradually moving higher. "I want to taste you, Harry. Just this. Just tonight."
Harry's mouth went dry. The common room was empty, the fire dying, but anyone could come down those stairs at any moment. It was reckless, dangerous—and God help him, he couldn't find the will to stop her.
"Someone might see," he managed, even as his legs unconsciously spread wider.
Ginny's lips curved into a wicked smile. "Then they will see a good show,"
Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his pajamas, and Harry lifted his hips just enough to help as she tugged them down to mid-thigh. His cock sprang free, already fully hard, stretching nearly nine inches from base to tip.
"Fuck," Ginny breathed, her eyes widening slightly. "I'd heard rumors, but..."
"Rumors?" Harry choked out, half-embarrassed, half-aroused by the hungry look on her face.
"Quidditch locker room talk," she murmured distractedly, wrapping her slender fingers around his shaft.
The sensation of her warm hand against him sent a jolt of pleasure up Harry's spine. Her grip was different from his own—softer but more confident, squeezing experimentally to gauge his reaction.
"Is this okay?" she asked, looking up through her lashes as she slowly stroked him from base to tip.
"More than okay," Harry gasped, his head falling back against the chair.
Ginny smiled, leaning forward to place a delicate kiss against the swollen head. Harry's cock twitched in response, a bead of precum forming at the tip. She licked it away with a deliberate swipe of her tongue, humming with approval at the taste.
"You taste good," she whispered, her breath hot against his sensitive skin.
Before Harry could respond, she took him into her mouth, just the head at first, her lips forming a tight seal as her tongue swirled around the sensitive ridge. Harry bit his lip to stifle a groan, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Ginny took her time, exploring what made him twitch and gasp. She hollowed her cheeks as she sucked, taking him deeper with each bob of her head. Her fiery hair fell forward, creating a curtain around her face that Harry gently brushed aside, wanting to see everything.
"Gin..." he breathed, unable to form coherent thoughts as she took him deeper, her hand working what wouldn't fit in her mouth.
She looked up, their eyes locking as she slowly, deliberately took him until he hit the back of her throat. The sight nearly undid him—Ginny Weasley on her knees, her warm brown eyes locked on his, her lips stretched around his cock.
"Fuck, that's—" His words dissolved into a hiss as she swallowed around him, her throat constricting deliciously.
She pulled back to catch her breath, stroking him with her spit-slicked hand. "I've wanted to do this for so long," she confessed, her voice husky. "Thought about it every night."
The revelation sent another surge of arousal through him. The idea of Ginny lying in her dormitory, touching herself while thinking of him—of this—was almost too much.
She took him in her mouth again, establishing a rhythm that had Harry's toes curling. Her free hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently between her fingers as she worked his shaft with increasing confidence.
"Ginny, I'm going to—" Harry warned, feeling the familiar tightening at the base of his spine.
Rather than pulling away, she doubled her efforts, her movements becoming more purposeful. Her eyes met his again, and the message in them was clear: she wanted this, wanted to taste him completely.
The shadows around them pulsed in time with Harry's racing heart as pleasure built to an unbearable peak. His hips jerked upward involuntarily, but Ginny took it in stride, adjusting to his movements without breaking rhythm.
With a muffled groan, Harry came, his cock pulsing as he spilled himself into her eager mouth. Ginny moaned around him, swallowing everything he gave her, her throat working as she continued to suck gently, drawing out every last drop.
Only when he became too sensitive did she finally release him, placing one last kiss on the tip before sitting back on her heels. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed, and Harry thought she'd never looked more beautiful.
"Come here," he whispered, helping her up and onto his lap. He kissed her deeply, tasting himself on her tongue and finding it unexpectedly erotic.
When they finally broke apart, Ginny rested her forehead against his, both of them breathing heavily.
"That was..." Harry trailed off, words failing him.
"Just the beginning," Ginny finished with a mischievous smile, pressing herself against the hard plane of his chest. "Next time with Hermione, though. I meant what I said."
Harry tucked himself back into his pajamas, his mind reeling with possibilities. "Do you think she'd really want...?"
Ginny's laugh was low and knowing. "Harry, I've seen how she looks at both of us. Trust me, she wants."
Whatever complications tomorrow might bring, tonight had been perfect.
Harry nodded, understanding.
"You should try to sleep," Ginny said, standing reluctantly. "Dragon-facing requires proper rest."
"So does dragon-strategy planning," Harry countered, rising as well.
They stood facing each other. Harry reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture that felt both intimate and natural.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For the dragon tips. For... everything."
Ginny caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. "That's what girlfriends are for."
As Harry climbed the stairs to his dormitory, a few minutes later, he realized something remarkable. For the first time in days, he wasn't thinking about dragons or the tournament. Instead, his mind was filled with shadows that danced rather than threatened, and the memory of Ginny's lips on his.
Sleep, when it finally came, was deep and dreamless.
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