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They made their way across the sloping lawns toward the castle, the sinking sun spilling honey-coloured light across the grass and glinting off the lake like liquid fire. Harry's muscles complained with every step, a deep, stubborn ache Madam Pomfrey hadn't quite managed to banish, but he couldn't bring himself to care. With Hermione on his left, and Tonks on his right, tripping over a root and laughing at herself before launching into yet another exaggerated retelling of his supposed romantic heroics with Fleur, Harry felt... lighter. As though something tight inside him had finally, mercifully uncoiled.
He was alive. They all were. And tomorrow would bring the next task and the next worry, but tonight he was simply Harry. Not The Boy Who Lived, not Hogwarts's latest walking disaster, not the champion everyone whispered about. Just a boy with sore legs, two friends flanking him, and the sudden luxury of breathing without dread.
"So," Hermione began, curiosity sharpened like a quill poised above parchment as they reached the marble staircase, "are you actually going to tell us what happened in the dome? Because that two-sentence summary you gave the officials was utter rubbish and you know it."
Harry hesitated on the step, the memory of cold glass and screaming reflections flickering through him like a chill draft. Seven mirrors. Each one a doorway to something twisted and terrible. His parents smiling, whole and warm again, if only he'd—
He swallowed.
"House of Mirrors," he managed, voice rough. "Noxlings. They trap you in nightmares. I had to save everyone. And then I had to choose whether to save my parents or..." The words dissolved before he could force them into shape.
Hermione's fingers slipped into his, warm and sure, her thumb brushing the side of his hand with quiet, steady reassurance. She didn't press him.
"You're here," she said gently. "That's what matters."
"And apparently," Tonks chimed in breezily, hair flashing bubblegum-pink as she pulled a heroic pose, "you still found time to snog Fleur senseless in between bouts of mortal peril. Honestly impressive time management, Potter."
"It wasn't—we weren't—" Harry spluttered, cheeks warming, which only made Hermione burst into delighted laughter.
They reached the Fat Lady, who was already fluttering and fussing, cheeks pink and fan waving as though scandal might leap off the very air.
"Password?"
"Fortuna Major," Hermione said crisply.
The portrait swung open and pandemonium hit them like a Bludger. Scarlet and gold banners draped from beams and bookshelves, confetti sparkled mid-air like enchanted snow, and a massive charmed banner reading POTTER THE CHAMPION flashed above the fireplace. Every Gryffindor seemed squeezed inside, shouting at once.
The moment Harry stepped in, the roar that rose shook dust from the rafters.
"HARRY!"
Fred and George walked through the crowd as if summoned by chaos alone, scooping him up before he could protest.
"Oi—put me—" Harry managed between laughter and grimacing as his ribs objected, but the twins jostled him with gentleness before setting him down atop a makeshift throne of cushions near the fire.
Ron shoved his way through, face split in a grin so fierce it looked like his cheeks hurt.
"Mate. MATE. That was insane. Everyone's been losing it trying to figure out what happened! Bagman's useless as usual, the judges won't say a word, and you came out looking like you'd gone ten rounds with a Horntail."
"Feels like I did," Harry admitted, accepting a butterbeer thrust into his hand—Seamus, probably, judging by the foam already staining his sleeve.
"Tell us everything," Lavender demanded breathlessly, Parvati at her shoulder. "Was it really mirrors? Did they actually attack you?"
Harry scanned the common room, suddenly aware of just how many faces were crammed into it. First-years perched nervously on armrests, seventh-years lounged as though they'd survived wars instead of essays, and everyone else filled every bit of sofa and carpet in between. They all watched him with varying degrees of awe and curiosity.
"House of Mirrors," Harry said bluntly. "Full of creatures called Noxlings. They trap you in nightmares. Make you live your worst fears. We had to find our own corpse and take a memory from it."
A ripple of unease passed through the room like a sudden breeze. Even Fred and George, who typically laughed in the face of mortal peril and homework alike, went oddly quiet.
"Your own corpse?" Parvati whispered, voice barely more than a squeak. "That's..."
"Messed up," George declared solemnly. "Properly messed up. Even for these lunatics."
"What was your nightmare?" Dean piped up from somewhere behind a stack of butterbeer bottles. "What did you have to face?"
Harry's fingers tightened around his bottle. The carved words might be gone from his skin, but they still lived beneath it like phantom echoes. Hermione clawing at parchment that smothered her, Ron drowning beneath spiders, Sirius falling endlessly, a scream vanishing into black—
"That's private," Hermione said sharply, appearing beside him like a furious guardian angel who'd been waiting for precisely this idiotic question. "Some things are champions' business and no one else's."
"But—"
"No," Hermione cut in. "Harry endured something horrific. Curiosity doesn't entitle us to details. What he does owe us is being here, alive and whole, and that is what we are celebrating."
For a moment, the room hung suspended, uncertainty crackling in the air. Then Ron lifted his butterbeer high, face set with determined loyalty.
"To Harry," he said, voice louder than necessary. "For surviving whatever nightmare insanity the tournament threw at him and still managing to stand upright after!"
"To Harry!" the room bellowed in united relief, and the party burst back to life with renewed vigor.
Food appeared in teetering piles on every surface, proof that the house-elves had clearly decided moral support included sandwiches, crisps, and enough sweets to stun a troll. Fred and George unveiled "celebration potions," which turned every sentence Seamus uttered into rhyme, much to his horror when he attempted to explain Quidditch tactics in tragic heroic couplets.
"Right then!" Fred announced, clapping his hands together with a crack that made several first-years jump. "Now that our champion has graced us with his presence and hasn't died—"
"Yet," George added cheerfully.
"—we have games to play!"
"Oh no," Ron groaned from his position sprawled on the floor. "Not your games. Last time you had 'games,' I ended up singing the Hogwarts school song in my underwear."
"And it was beautiful," Fred said, wiping away a fake tear. "But tonight's games are different. Tonight, we celebrate survival with—" He paused dramatically, pulling a crate from behind the sofa. "—the First Annual Gryffindor Butterbeer Games!"
The common room erupted in cheers and groans.
"What are the Butterbeer Games?" Ginny asked suspiciously, though her eyes sparkled with interest.
George grinned. "Simple, dear sister. A series of increasingly ridiculous challenges, all involving butterbeer. Winner gets—" He flourished his wand, and a gaudy golden trophy appeared, hovering above their heads. It read: GRYFFINDOR'S GREATEST DRINKER (OF BUTTERBEER, MCGONAGALL, PUT THE DETENTION NOTICE DOWN).
"That's the worst trophy I've ever seen," Hermione said.
"Thank you!" Fred beamed. "We made it ourselves. Now, first challenge: Butterbeer Chugging!"
Tables were hastily cleared, and six bottles of butterbeer were lined up. Harry found himself volunteered—"The champion must defend his honor!"—alongside Ron, Ginny, Dean, Seamus, and a nervous-looking third-year named Dennis Creevey who'd been pushed forward by his brother Colin.
"On your marks," Fred called, wand raised. "Get set—"
"Wait, wait!" Hermione interrupted. "Harry's already exhausted. This isn't—"
"I'm fine," Harry said, grinning at her despite the ache in his bones. The firewhiskey from earlier had settled into a pleasant warmth, and something about the absurdity of chugging butterbeer after facing nightmares and Noxlings felt exactly right. "Let's do this."
"DRINK!"
Harry grabbed his bottle and tilted it back. The butterbeer was cold and sweet, bubbles fizzing against the back of his throat. Around him, the common room exploded into cheers and chants—"HARRY! HARRY! HARRY!"—and he could hear Ron beside him making alarming gulping sounds.
He slammed his empty bottle down first, foam dripping from his chin, and the room went wild.
"POTTER WINS!" George bellowed. "Though Weasley's attempt was valiant if somewhat resembling a dying whale!"
Ron, still coughing, flipped him off.
"Round two!" Fred announced. "Butterbeer Accuracy! Each contestant must levitate a full butterbeer across the room and pour it into a glass held by a partner without using their hands to steady anything!"
This descended into chaos almost immediately. Lavender ended up drenched when Parvati's aim went spectacularly wrong. Seamus managed to set his bottle on fire somehow—"I swear I was just trying to levitate it!"—and Ginny got hers perfectly into Harry's glass, earning roaring approval.
"You're better at this than I am," Harry admitted as they high-fived.
"You just fought nightmare monsters," Ginny said, grinning. "I think you're allowed to lose at butterbeer games."
The challenges continued: Butterbeer Balancing (standing on one foot while balancing a bottle on your head), Butterbeer Trivia (surprisingly won by Hermione, who apparently had opinions about proper brewing techniques), and the grand finale—Butterbeer Tower Building, which involved stacking empty bottles into increasingly precarious towers using only magic.
Harry's tower collapsed spectacularly, taking out Ron's in the process.
"FOUL!" Ron shouted, laughing too hard to be actually angry. "Sabotage!"
"Prove it," Harry shot back, helping him pick up bottles.
By the time the games wound down, the seventh-years were passing around firewhiskey.
"Here," Ron murmured, shoving a glass of amber liquid into Harry's hand. "For bravery or stupidity. Whichever it was. Don't tell McGonagall."
Harry took a tentative sip. It scorched its way down his throat like dragonfire.
"That's vile," he rasped.
"Warms you, though, doesn't it?" Ron said smugly. "Good sign."
"All right, all right!" Lavender called out, standing on a table with the kind of confidence that came from three butterbeers and questionable life choices. "New game: Truth or Dare!"
A collective "ooooh" rippled through the common room.
"I'm not playing that," Hermione said immediately.
"You have to!" Parvati insisted. "Everyone plays Truth or Dare!"
"I'll play if Hermione plays," Harry said, surprising himself.
Hermione shot him a look that promised retribution later, but she settled back into the cushions beside him. "Fine. But I'm not doing anything that gets us detention."
"Where's the fun in that?" Fred asked innocently.
They formed a loose circle, bottles and glasses scattered between them. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows across eager faces. Someone dimmed the magical lights, making everything feel more intimate, more conspiratorial.
"I'll start!" Lavender announced. "Seamus—truth or dare?"
"Dare," Seamus said without hesitation.
"I dare you to... kiss the person on your right!"
Seamus looked. Dean stared back.
"Oh, bloody hell," Seamus muttered, but he pecked Dean quickly on the cheek to roaring laughter and wolf-whistles.
"My turn," Seamus said, face red. "Parvati—truth or dare?"
"Truth."
"Is it true you fancy someone in this room?"
Parvati's eyes darted sideways toward Dean, then away. "...Yes."
The game continued, growing progressively more chaotic. Fred was dared to dance on the table (he did, with surprising grace). George admitted he'd once considered asking Professor McGonagall on a date (the room nearly collapsed with laughter). Ginny confessed she'd hexed a Slytherin's robes to fall off during dinner last year (no one was surprised).
Then Ron, emboldened by firewhiskey and poor judgment, looked directly at Harry.
"Harry—truth or dare?"
Harry felt Hermione tense beside him. "Truth," he said, because dares seemed dangerous when Fred and George were watching with gleaming eyes.
Ron's grin turned wicked. "Is it true that you're involved with more than one girl?"
The common room went dead silent. Even the fire seemed to quiet.
Harry's heart hammered. This was dangerous territory—not because it was secret, exactly, but because it was his, private and precious and complicated. He could feel multiple gazes on him: Hermione steady and calm, Ginny curious, Lavender and Parvati practically vibrating with gossip-hunger.
"Yes," he said simply.
Gasps. Whispers. Someone dropped a bottle.
"I KNEW IT!" Lavender shrieked. "I told you—the way Hermione wasn't jealous about Fleur—"
"And Tonks is constantly here—" Parvati added.
"That's—that's brilliant, mate," Dean said admiringly. "How do you even—"
"Moving on," Hermione cut in sharply, though her hand found Harry's and squeezed. "Harry, your turn."
Harry looked around the circle, grateful for the escape. "George—truth or dare?"
"Dare. Obviously."
"I dare you to go knock on McGonagall's office and tell her you need to discuss 'romantic feelings.'"
The room exploded. George's face went pale, then red, then determined.
"You're a monster, Potter," he said, standing. "But a Gryffindor never backs down. Fred, if I'm expelled, you get my Zonko's collection."
They watched through the portrait hole as George disappeared. Five minutes later, he returned, looking traumatized.
"She said we'd discuss it in detention tomorrow," he reported. "She looked delighted."
The game continued—Hermione admitted she'd stolen a book from the Restricted Section and never returned it ("Hermione!" "It was for research!"), Ginny was dared to hex Ron's hair pink (she did, gleefully), and Harry was dared to down an entire butterbeer while doing a handstand, which ended with him on the floor, laughing too hard to care that he'd failed spectacularly.
By the time Truth or Dare wound down, half the house had collapsed into armchairs and cushions, snoring, giggling, or in one case (Seamus again) composing mournful limericks about broomsticks.
Harry sat in his usual armchair near the fire, Ron snoring faintly to his right, Hermione curled neatly on his left, the warmth of firewhiskey settling into him like a thick blanket.
"So," Neville asked from a nearby sofa, voice thoughtful and soft, "what's the second task going to be? If the first was nightmares and... corpses... then what's worse?"
Harry drew out the small vial he'd tucked safely away. The green memory churned within like smoke trapped under glass.
"Crouch said there are clues in these," Harry said. "We're meant to watch them. Figure out what's next."
"When will you look?" Ron mumbled sleepily without lifting his head.
"Tomorrow," Harry murmured. "After I talk to Dumbledore." He turned the vial slowly, firelight catching the swirling liquid. "Part of me wants to throw it in the fire and pretend none of this exists."
"But you won't," Hermione said quietly.
"No," Harry said, the word steady despite the ache in his chest. "I won't."
Students drifted to bed in waves, until only the embers, a whispering few seventh-years, and the faint sound of Fred and George snoring in harmony remained. Ron had slumped sideways, now asleep with his mouth open and a soft whistle escaping every breath.
Hermione's hand touched Harry's arm. When he looked at her, her eyes were warm and intent, seeing straight through him as always.
"Come with me," she whispered.
"Where?" Harry asked, though he was already standing, following her toward the portrait hole.
"You'll see," Hermione said mysteriously. "It's a reward. For surviving."
They slipped out of Gryffindor Tower into the darkened castle. The corridors were empty, portraits sleeping in their frames, only the occasional ghost drifting past to mark their passage. Hermione led him through familiar paths, then down a hallway he recognized—seventh floor, past the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet.
The Room of Requirement.
"Hermione," Harry started, but she was already pacing, concentrating on whatever she needed. The door materialized, and she pushed it open with a small smile.
Inside, the room had configured itself into something intimate—soft lighting, comfortable furniture, a large bed that dominated the center. And waiting there, leaning against that bed, were Tonks and Fleur.
Harry's brain stuttered to a halt. Tonks grinned at him, her hair shifting through colors that suggested amusement and anticipation. Fleur's smile was softer and warm like a sun.
"Surprise," Hermione said from behind him.
"I—what—" Harry's vocabulary had apparently abandoned him entirely.
"A reward," Fleur repeated, stepping forward. She'd changed from her torn Beauxbatons robes into something simpler—a dress that moved like water, silvery-blue and impossibly elegant. "For surviving. For being brave. For being you."
"All three of us wanted to celebrate with you properly," Tonks added, pushing off from the bed. She wore Muggle clothes—jeans and a fitted shirt that probably belonged to someone else but fit her perfectly anyway. "And we figured why wait? Life's too short, especially when tournaments keep trying to kill you."
Harry looked between the three of them—Hermione in the doorway, Tonks and Fleur in the room, all of them looking at him with expressions that made his mouth go dry and his heart hammer against his ribs.
"Are you sure?" he managed, the words inadequate but necessary. "All of you?"
"Very sure," Hermione said, closing the door behind them and locking it with a charm Harry recognized as one that would prevent interruptions. "Though if you'd rather go back to Gryffindor Tower and sleep..."
"No," Harry said quickly, probably too quickly, given how all three women laughed. "I mean. No, I definitely don't want to do that."
Fleur crossed the remaining distance between them, her hands rising to cup his face. "Zen stop talking, 'Arry," she said softly, her breath warm against his lips. "And let us show you 'ow proud we are of you."
She kissed him, and the world narrowed to that single point of contact—her lips on his.
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