The first morning hurt more than the Goblet.
Theo's alarm charm went off at an hour that felt personally offensive. For a long, treacherous minute he lay in the dark, staring at the underside of the canopy, listening to the sleepy breathing of the other sixth-years. His body offered a dozen reasonable arguments for going back to sleep. His mind responded with a single, inconvenient fact.
Three tasks. Three public chances to die stupidly.
He swung his legs out of bed.
The dungeons were colder than usual; the lake pressed against the outer wall like a vast, disinterested observer. Theo dressed in his oldest robes over a thin T-shirt, jammed his feet into trainers, and jogged up toward the grounds, wand tucked into his sleeve. The air outside bit at his lungs when he drew his first real breath.
"Brilliant idea, Hale," he muttered, and started running.
He hadn't realised how long the path around the Black Lake actually was. The first lap nearly killed him. His chest burned, his calves screamed, and his side cramped so viciously he had to stop and lean against a boulder, gulping air like a landed fish. A group of bleary-eyed Hufflepuffs returning from early greenhouse duty gave him curious looks before moving on.
He pressed his palm against his ribs and forced himself upright.
"Actual death is worse," he told his protesting muscles. "Probably."
The second lap was slower but marginally less catastrophic. By the time he staggered back into the castle, sweat cooling unpleasantly on his skin, his legs felt like they belonged to someone else. He cast a weak warming charm across his chest and shoulders to stop the shivering and shuffled down to breakfast.
By the time he reached the Slytherin table, his hands had stopped shaking.
Mediocrity, he decided, had been physically comfortable. Survival was not.
By the end of the first week, he'd stopped throwing up behind the same tree.
The routine settled in with a grim kind of inevitability. Every morning: up before dawn, two laps around the lake, then a series of exercises he'd pieced together from Muggle fitness books and desperation—push-ups, squats, lunges. Sometimes he levitated stones as makeshift weights, lowering them slowly until his arms trembled.
His body complained less loudly each day. The first morning, he'd barely made it through one loop without doubling over. On the fourth, he completed two shaky circuits and still had enough breath left to swear at a particularly smug crow. On the seventh, he could climb the dungeon stairs to breakfast without feeling like his lungs were full of broken glass.
The price was pain.
By midweek his muscles had begun staging a rebellion. Theo met it with research. In the evenings, after classes, he added another column to his library stack: potion theory for physical strain. Madam Pince watched him carry Essence of Murtlap and Its Applications and Minor Restoratives for Everyday Use to his corner with a look that suggested she found the combination both suspicious and interesting.
The salve he concocted from Murtlap essence, comfrey, and a carefully measured dilution of bruise paste smelled faintly of the lake and old socks. Rubbed into aching calves and shoulders after his runs, it dulled the worst of the pain and let the muscles knit cleanly overnight instead of tightening into knots.
He tested it on himself first. His legs went briefly numb.
"You're going to cripple yourself," he muttered at his reflection in the bathroom mirror that night, flexing his toes to make sure they still worked. "At least it'll be in the name of self‑improvement."
The next morning, the stiffness was tolerable instead of paralysing. He counted that as a win.
His days rearranged themselves around the Tournament.
Classes remained, at first. He still went to Charms, to Transfiguration, to the ones he couldn't afford to tank without drawing dangerous attention. His focus within them shifted. In Defence Against the Dark Arts, he no longer half‑listened and took neat notes out of habit. He watched spell demonstrations with an almost predatory intensity, tracing wand movements, comparing incantations in his head.
When Professor Moody barked, "Constant vigilance!" for the fourth time in a lesson, Theo realised, with faint irritation, that the man might actually mean it.
Afternoons were for the library. The pile of texts in his corner grew: defensive theory, creature behaviour, spellcraft. He devoured The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts and A Compendium of Hexes for the Unremarkable Wizard with a thoroughness he'd never granted any textbook before. Identifying Dangerous Creatures by Behavioural Pattern became his favourite; it turned fear into classification, panic into bullet points.
Evenings, he found empty classrooms. There, he practised until his wand arm ached.
"Protego," he said, over and over, until the shimmering shield formed faster, cleaner, less like a panicked guess and more like an instinct. He pinned bits of chalk to desks as targets and practised Expelliarmus until his wrist throbbed. Moving targets came next: feathers hovering in the air, cushions bobbing gently as he tried to disarm, stun, or knock them aside before they drifted past him.
The first few days were humiliating. Spells misfired or came out weak. His shield sagged under imaginary blows. He dropped his wand twice when it recoiled in his sweaty grip.
By the end of the week, he could chain a shield into a disarming spell without tripping over his own feet.
It wasn't enough. But it was something.
------------------
The first Wednesday after Halloween, Theo reported to the practice chamber off Snape's office at six sharp.
The room was long and bare, half‑lit by torches, with scorch marks climbing the stone walls and a faint smell of old spellfire clinging to the air. There were no desks, no chairs, nowhere to hide.
"Wand out," Snape said from the doorway. "Shield first."
Theo obeyed. "Protego."
The shield flickered into existence a fraction too slowly.
The hex that followed was a sharp, unpleasant sting against his forearm. His shield caught it, barely, but the impact pushed him back a step.
"You flinched," Snape said. "Pointless. The shield either holds or it fails. Your body panicking in advance helps no one. Again."
They repeated. Snape did not call his spells aloud; he flicked his wand without warning, forcing Theo to read movement rather than sound. Stinging hexes, jinxes that tried to lock his knees, a sudden non‑verbal Expelliarmus that ripped his wand half‑out of his grip when his shield came up a fraction late.
"Your reaction time is abysmal," Snape said calmly. "Again."
By the seventh or eighth exchange, Theo's breathing was ragged, his sleeve singed where a hex had brushed it, but his shield was coming up faster—less conscious thought, more reflex.
A red bolt snapped toward him; his wand was already rising.
"Protego!"
This time the shield came up cleanly, humming under his grip. The hex splashed against it and dissipated.
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Better. You have power. You insist on treating it like borrowed magic. It is yours. Use it."
Theo swallowed and nodded once.
"Now," Snape said, "chain it. Protego, step, Expelliarmus. If you stand in one place, you die."
He animated a battered training dummy with a lazy flick. It lurched forward, wand outstretched. Theo raised his own.
The first attempt was a mess: shield late, step in the wrong direction, disarming spell off‑target. The second was marginally less catastrophic. By the fifth, he managed a decent shield, a sidestep instead of a retreat, and a disarming charm that snapped the dummy's wand from its straw hand.
The wand clattered across the floor.
"Acceptable," Snape said. "In the sense that you did not immediately die. Again."
Theo didn't know whether to laugh or collapse. He raised his wand.
By the second Wednesday, he was shattered.
Six days of running before dawn, classes crammed back‑to‑back, evenings in empty classrooms practising shields and disarms, and Snape's hexes twice a week had ground down whatever reserves he'd started with. His Murtlap salve kept his legs functioning; the rest of him felt like it had been used to cushion a Bludger.
Halfway through that session, after a particularly vicious stinging hex caught him on the ribs when his shield slipped, something in him snapped—not in anger, but in cold, practical calculation.
He straightened slowly, chest heaving, wand still in hand.
"Professor," he said, before Snape could order another round. "I need more time."
Snape's wand lowered a fraction. "Clarify."
"I'm trying to train for this between essays and double periods," Theo said, forcing the words out evenly. "Beauxbatons and Durmstrang are restructuring their champions' days around the Tournament. I'm cramming it into the gaps. It isn't sustainable."
"Your poor planning is not grounds to dismantle Hogwarts' timetable," Snape said.
"This isn't poor planning," Theo said. "It's arithmetic." He kept his gaze on a point just past Snape's shoulder—it was easier to speak if he wasn't looking directly into those eyes. "If I go into the First Task half‑prepared and collapse in the first minute, I'll look like a fool. That reflects on Hogwarts. On Slytherin. On you, as the professor whose subject is supposedly preparation for real danger."
The last sentence felt like stepping off a ledge. He waited for the fall.
Snape's expression did not flicker, but the silence changed quality, sharpening.
"You are attempting to appeal to my sense of reputation," Snape said at last. "Careful, Mr Hale. Flattery is not your strength."
"I'm not flattering you," Theo said. "I'm stating facts. You're training me. If I fail spectacularly because I couldn't put enough hours in, that failure will be attached to your name as much as mine. I would rather that not happen."
They looked at each other for a long, taut moment.
"You are asking," Snape said softly, "for exemption from classes to devote yourselves entirely to Tournament preparation."
"From some classes," Theo said. "Not yours. Not the ones that actually help. But Divination? Binns' lectures? I can read the text on my own. If Durmstrang can pull Krum out of lessons without anyone crying about curriculum, Hogwarts can spare a few hours for its own champion."
A ghost of something—annoyance, or reluctant agreement—twisted Snape's mouth.
"Your argument presupposes," he said, "that I care whether the arrangement is fair."
"It presupposes you care whether Hogwarts looks incompetent," Theo said. "And whether a Slytherin dies because he was deliberately kept at a disadvantage."
That landed.
Snape inhaled once, slow and shallow, as if tasting the words for weak points. Finding none he could easily skewer, he turned away, wand flicking out to extinguish the animated dummy.
"You will not miss my lessons," he said. "Nor any class in which you are currently scraping the bottom of the barrel."
Theo nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
"I will authorise your excusal from… less critical distractions," Snape went on, distaste curling the word. "Divination. Historia's more redundant contact hours. In return, you will present me with weekly written summaries of how you have used that time. If your progress does not justify the concession, it will be revoked."
Relief loosened Theo's chest so suddenly it hurt. "Understood."
"And do not," Snape added, picking up his wand again, "ever suggest I am doing this out of concern for your feelings. I am doing it to avoid the embarrassment of watching a Slytherin humiliate himself in front of half of Europe."
Theo couldn't help it. "Of course, professor. I'd hate to damage your aesthetic."
A stinging hex grazed his shoulder before he'd quite finished the sentence.
"Less commentary," Snape said. "More shields."
Theo raised his wand, arm throbbing, and obeyed.
-------------
He approached Harry halfway through the second week.
It took him three days to decide on the right moment. Approaching Potter in the Great Hall would invite spectators. Cornering him outside Gryffindor Tower was a good way to get hexed by someone else. In the end, the opportunity presented itself when Harry left Defence alone one afternoon, clutching his bag and looking like he'd rather be invisible.
Theo slipped out after him and matched his pace.
"Potter," he said.
Harry glanced over, suspicion flickering across his face. "Hale," he said cautiously. "Right?"
"Good to know I exist in the famous brain," Theo said. "Can I bother you for a minute?"
Harry's fingers tightened slightly on the strap of his bag. "What do you want?"
"A favour," Theo said. "And before you say no, hear the pitch."
Harry didn't slow, but he didn't walk away either. "All right."
Theo took a breath. "We seem to have both been signed up—accidentally—for the same 'die in front of the school' package," he said lightly. "The difference is, you have an unfortunate amount of experience with people trying to kill you. I do not."
Harry blinked. "You're… asking me to help you?"
"I'm asking to practise duelling with you," Theo said. "You have instincts I don't. I need to know what it feels like to be on the wrong end of real intent, even if it's toned down. If I'm going to get knocked on my arse repeatedly, it might as well be by the Boy Who Lived. Makes the bruises feel prestigious."
That pulled a short, surprised breath of laughter out of Harry before he caught himself. "You realise," he said slowly, "that even with practice… it's dragons."
Theo actually stopped walking. "I'm sorry?"
"Dragons," Harry repeated, grimacing. "Hagrid showed me. First Task. Four of them. Different breeds. We have to get past them to grab something." He let out a breath. "I didn't know how to tell you. You're Slytherin, and we've never—" He broke off, gesturing vaguely. "Talked."
Theo stared at him. "Dragons," he said again, because his brain seemed to have jammed. "Right. Of course. Why not trolls or homicidal shrubbery, we might as well go straight to apex predators."
"Sorry," Harry said, looking genuinely uncomfortable. "I should've—earlier. I just… didn't know if you'd think I was trying to mess with you."
"If you were trying to mess with me, you'd pick something less plausible," Theo said faintly. "Dragons it is."
He started walking again because stopping wasn't helping.
"Well," he said, after a moment, "that explains why my subconscious has been unhelpfully humming 'Funeral March' all week."
Harry huffed a laugh despite himself. "You're taking this better than I did."
"I assure you, internally I am screaming," Theo said. "Externally, I am making plans. First step: do not die instantly. That's where you come in."
Harry gave him a sideways look. "You still want to duel, knowing what it is?"
"Especially knowing what it is," Theo said. "If I'm going to be flung into an arena with a magical flamethrower, I'd like my reflexes to be something better than 'freeze and hope it's quick.'"
He managed a crooked smile. "So yes. I'm still asking. You get a live opponent who isn't terrified of you and isn't a Death Eater. I get to be marginally less dragon‑snack. Hermione gets to criticise both of us. Everyone wins."
"She hasn't agreed to that," came Hermione's voice from behind Harry.
Theo looked past him. She stood in the corridor with an armful of books, eyes narrowed, clearly having heard enough to be interested.
"Miss Granger," Theo said, inclining his head.
"It's Hermione," she said automatically, then turned to Harry. "He's right. You need practice too. If you're both going into the same task, it makes sense."
Harry looked between them, still wary but no longer outright resistant. "You'd actually supervise?" he asked Hermione.
"Of course," she said. "Someone has to make sure you don't turn each other into jelly. Three evenings a week. One hour duelling, one hour reviewing what went wrong."
Theo raised his hands slightly. "For the record, I have no desire to be jelly," he said. "Being conscious seems useful."
Harry exhaled slowly. "All right," he said. "Fine. We try it. No guarantees I'll be any good at teaching."
"You don't need to teach," Theo said. "You just need to do what you always do. Survive badly planned situations. I'll pay attention."
For the first time, Harry smiled properly, brief and crooked. "That I can manage."
-------------------
The duels were brutal.
Their first session in an empty classroom on the third floor was a disaster. Hermione transfigured desks into padded barriers and drew a rough boundary line on the floor with a charm; Theo and Harry took opposite ends, wands ready, and exchanged an awkward nod.
"Just start," Harry said. "Don't think too much."
Theo thought too much. He cast Protego too late, stumbled, and took a Stunner to the shoulder that sent him skidding into a barrier. The second attempt was only marginally better; this time he managed to raise a shield, but his follow‑up disarming charm was so weak Harry batted it aside without breaking stride.
"Again," Hermione said, quill scratching furiously over her parchment. "Theo, your shield is improving but you drop your wand arm as soon as you think you're safe. Harry, you're overcommitting on that right step; you're leaving your left side open."
They went again. And again. And again.
By the end of the first evening, Theo's robe was damp with sweat and spotted with dust. His hair stuck to his forehead; his arm trembled when he tried to lift his wand for the last time.
"Final round," Hermione said.
"Sadist," Theo muttered. "I see why professors like you."
Harry snorted. "You're getting better," he said grudgingly. "You're… reading me."
Theo leaned on his knees, breathing hard. "You drop your shoulder before you cast left," he said. "It's like a sign board. 'Incoming.' "
Harry blinked. "I do?"
"Yes," Hermione said immediately. "I've been trying to tell you that for months."
"Good," Theo said. "Then I'm useful for something. Now if you'll excuse me, I believe my legs have filed for legal separation."
Hermione's lips twitched. "You lasted three times as long as at the beginning," she said. "That's significant."
"Well," Theo said, straightening with an audible crack in his back. "If I die in the First Task, at least no one can say I didn't die incrementally less pathetic."
By the third week of November, his life had narrowed to a sharp point.
Mornings: running until his lungs burned, strengthening charms on his joints when they threatened to buckle, Murtlap salve on his legs at night.
Days: compressed classes, the occasional murmur in corridors—"That's him, the Slytherin one"—and Snape's dry corrections in Potions. Once, when Theo adjusted a cutting angle on boomslang skin without being prompted, Snape said, almost absently, "At this rate, you may become competent before you get yourself killed. A novelty."
Evenings: duels with Harry, Hermione's relentless notes, Snape's hexes in the practice chamber. Theo began to see patterns everywhere—how Harry's stance shifted when he was about to try something reckless, how Hermione's questions sharpened whenever he guessed correctly, how Snape's eyes narrowed when Theo pushed through exhaustion instead of yielding to it.
One Wednesday, the three of them stood in their now‑familiar classroom arena. Harry lunged in with a Stunner; Theo's Protego flared, he stepped sideways instead of back, and his Expelliarmus hit Harry's wand hand at just the right angle.
Harry's wand flew across the room.
For a heartbeat, all three stared at it.
"That," Hermione said, recovering first, "was excellent."
"Pure accident," Theo said automatically. "Please hex me again before it goes to my head."
Harry crossed the room, retrieved his wand, and looked at Theo with a new kind of appraisal. "Accidents don't usually have that timing," he said. "You're getting fast."
Theo shrugged, mouth dry. "Try not to sound too shocked," he said. "People might think I've been paying attention in class."
"You have been," Hermione said. "Don't ruin it."