"He's doing well, isn't he?" Hermione said with a smile, a hint of satisfaction in her expression.
After saying goodbye to Harry and Ron, who were heading to their Divination class in the North Tower, they walked through the shaded corridor from the Transfiguration classroom on the fourth floor to classroom 7A on the eighth floor, where their Arithmancy class was about to begin.
"Not bad," Draco said briefly, carrying her bag with one hand and holding her hand with the other, turning his head to study her face.
He had already noticed. He noticed it when he lifted her chin in the Transfiguration classroom.
Her eyes were a little puffy, and her cheeks too pale—a far cry from her usual energetic self.
This immediately silenced his irritation, and he could only dutifully serve as her sparring partner.
"Have you been skimping on sleep lately? Look at your dark circles," Draco said, his tone mildly reproachful.
"I'm really worried about Harry. His rivals are all so strong, and they're all several years older than him," Hermione said anxiously. "And he lacks effective support in this matter. The professors need to avoid any appearance of impropriety, and even though Sirius lives in Hogsmeade, he can't come to school every day—it would be far too conspicuous."
"That's right. Sirius is very busy as well—he has matters to attend to with the Order of the Phoenix," Draco said thoughtfully.
"The Order of the Phoenix?" Hermione asked.
"An organisation that opposes the Dark Lord, which Dumbledore founded many years ago. Sirius is now helping Dumbledore reassemble its members," Draco said.
"Yes, Harry's opponents have never been only the other champions. There's also Voldemort—" Hermione frowned. "I suspect he's still lurking in the shadows, watching Harry."
"Who knows—one day a hidden Death Eater might leap out and drag Harry before the Dark Lord to curry favour," Draco said idly, a shadow crossing his downcast eyes.
As the third event of the Triwizard Tournament drew nearer on the twenty-fourth of June, a quiet unease had begun to settle over him.
Although everything appeared to be under control, Draco had a persistent feeling that things were about to slip. The more peaceful his days seemed, the more suffocated he felt—as though a storm were gathering just out of sight, its source unknown.
"I'd wager kidnapping Harry at Hogwarts isn't easy. He's under tight protection," Hermione said, sensing the unease in Draco's voice like a small, perceptive animal, and offering reassurance. "The ghosts, suits of armour, and portraits in the castle are nothing to trifle with. They're all keeping a close eye on Harry and ready to report to Dumbledore at a moment's notice."
"A clever girl like you—couldn't you see through it?" Draco smiled and shook his head. "I thought it was a secret."
"It is a secret, of course. Very few would know," Hermione said smugly. "However, Dumbledore thought Harry might wander into the abandoned girls' bathroom—I imagine because of the lesson Harry learned in his second year—so he specifically asked Myrtle to keep an eye on him. She later told me about it."
"Hermione Granger, you're something else," Draco said. "You managed to get information out of that ghost? Myrtle isn't exactly the trusting sort."
"You're not exactly straightforward either, are you? You know perfectly well what those portraits are about, yet you haven't said a word to me." Hermione glanced at him sideways, her tone slow and deliberate. "Draco, what other information are you hiding? I'll give you a chance to confess—before I get angry."
"All right, don't be angry." Draco chuckled and ruffled her hair.
They turned down a corridor and passed a portrait of a silver-haired wizard who was pretending to doze off—hiding a dripping ice cream behind his back while peering at them through slitted eyes.
Draco leaned closer and whispered, "I suspect those professors who frequently check on Harry aren't only concerned about his preparation for the third task. It seems more like a protective measure—appearing near him in shifts, at irregular intervals, to make sure everything is all right."
"That makes sense!" Hermione said in surprise. "I've always felt that some professors' greetings to Harry were a bit unusual. You know, even Professor Burbage from Muggle Studies greeted him yesterday, and Harry was quite flattered. I was puzzled by it—they've never interacted before, and Harry has never taken that class."
Draco shrugged noncommittally.
"I think Ron has sensed something too. He's been with Harry constantly, never letting him wander off alone," Hermione said thoughtfully, as they passed a suit of silver armour trying to oil its own joints—it held up a thin-handled oil can and twisted itself into a creaking pretzel.
"Oh, he's a devoted Harry loyalist. I'd wager he follows Harry around at all hours—probably tugs at his foot when he goes to the bathroom—" Draco shook his head dismissively, then quickly added when he caught Hermione's curious look, "Don't ask me how I know."
Hermione laughed. "I only wanted to tell you that in the common room, Fred and George have been hovering around Harry constantly, always carrying a supply of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder."
"Not surprising. That would explain why they haven't been as devoted to their workshop lately—I initially thought they'd simply lost enthusiasm for their work." Draco nodded. "Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures."
"Aren't you the same? You've been offering spell advice through me and even practised with Harry for a long time today. Draco, I think you've done brilliantly." Hermione smiled at the boy, who suddenly looked slightly uncomfortable. "Some of the combat weaknesses you pointed out were things Ron and I hadn't even noticed after practising with him for so long."
"You know perfectly well who I opened that door for," Draco muttered under his breath as he held the door to classroom 7A open for her. "You cunning girl. You always flatter me."
They settled into their seats. Brilliant golden sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting wide bands of warmth across the room. The blue sky outside shone as though freshly glazed.
Hermione touched her brow and yawned sleepily.
Draco had no patience for anything else at that moment—her drowsy expression outweighed all other concerns.
"Are you tired?" he asked softly.
"Oh—" She paused, then admitted with faint embarrassment, "A little."
"Want a hug?" he said casually, his voice carrying a gentle note of encouragement. She glanced at him through the blur of a yawn and lazily stretched her arms toward him.
He reached out and drew her arm into his, pulling her close, settling her head against his shoulder. "Sleep for a bit," he said cheerfully and gently. "I'll wake you when class starts."
Hermione hummed softly, closed her eyes, and instinctively breathed in his scent. She nestled against his familiar shoulder and murmured happily, "Oh, Draco... I miss you every day."
"Same," Draco said quietly. He patted her back and massaged her temples for a while, smiling as he held her.
These past few days of enforced separation had left him restless and irritable. But now, with her back in his arms, his heart finally found the peace it had been missing.
Hermione sighed softly with contentment.
He was so considerate. Since being with him, her hard shell had been frequently dismantled, and her manner had been wonderfully shifting between "Gryffindor's proud Head Girl" and "Draco's thoroughly spoiled girlfriend."
With Harry and Ron, she was always the driving force—pushing them to be more ambitious, to work harder. But with Draco, he took care of things so thoroughly that she no longer needed to be vigilant on his behalf.
With him, she could briefly shed her armour.
"Draco…" she whispered.
"Hmm?" he replied lazily, gently rubbing her back.
"How did you know I was tired?" Hermione said softly, feeling the warmth of the sunlight on her cheeks. "I thought no one could tell…"
Harry and Ron never asked whether she was tired. They would complain that they were "exhausted," then collapse onto the nearest surface and act as though they were dead; if she urged them to keep going, they would say, "You high achievers have no idea how we feel."
That wasn't wrong of them, exactly. Most of the time Hermione preferred to show her stronger side. She liked being the kind of friend people could rely on without worry.
But she was used to sitting ramrod straight in a chair, forcing herself awake despite exhaustion, compelling the two of them to stand up and keep practising. She thought she'd hidden it well.
"Why…" she murmured, a sudden, inexplicable pang of hurt welling up in her chest. She rubbed her forehead against his cheek and asked, her voice thick, "Why do you always notice that I'm tired?"
"Because—"
After a long pause, he said softly, "Because I've been watching you the whole time."
Hermione's heart felt as though an Easter egg had burst open, scattering vivid fragments everywhere.
His words were like a warm, gentle balm, spreading through her and quieting everything that had been on the verge of unravelling.
She wanted to open her eyes, to see his face or those eyes that were always so tender towards her, and to tell him everything she felt in that moment.
But the sunlight was too bright, and her eyes were blurry with tears. Her eyelids seemed to be glued shut by sheer drowsiness, and a wave of emotion pressed against her lips.
"Hermione, I've been watching you," he said again, his voice distant yet clear, gentle yet resolute.
"All the time?" she asked hazily, her heart brimming.
"Always," he said softly.
"How long has it been?" she forced herself to ask.
"A long time," he whispered, patting her gently. "A very long time."
"That long?" she murmured.
"Yes." There was warmth in his voice, gently concealing the weight of what lay beneath. "A very, very long time."
"Good…" she said, as though half in a dream, tentatively letting a corner of her spoiled side show. "Keep watching… without stopping…"
She was faintly surprised by her own tone, vaguely realising that Draco had thoroughly spoiled her.
She couldn't imagine what she would be like without his embrace.
The thought startled her slightly, and she instinctively hugged him tighter. With his continued gentle pats and quiet words of comfort, she drifted off to sleep.
---
In the Divination classroom in the North Tower, Harry Potter was also drifting off to sleep.
Not because anyone was treating him with the same tenderness, but because Professor Trelawney's dimly lit classroom was as hot and thick as a steam bath, and the incense was overpowering.
He had only secretly cracked the window open a fraction, hoping to let in fresh air; but the June breeze cunningly caressed his cheeks, and the pleasant sensation made his eyelids droop despite himself.
Amidst Professor Trelawney's long, droning lecture on the angle between Mars and Neptune, Harry fell asleep in the winged armchair covered in Indian-print fabric.
In his dream, he seemed to be riding on an eagle, soaring through a bright blue sky until he reached an old ivy-covered house on a hillside. He had no idea where this was—he had never seen the place before.
He flew through a broken upper-storey window, down a gloomy corridor, and toward a door at the far end.
Behind the door was a dark room, every window sealed.
Harry realised he was no longer on the eagle owl's back. He watched it fly straight to the far end of the room, toward a high-backed chair facing away from him.
Three shadows moved on the floor beside the chair.
One was a large snake—just like the one he had glimpsed before—its body vast and its tail long and thick.
The second shadow was the shape of a person lying on the floor in agony, their face obscured by the corner of the chair, only twitching hands and legs visible.
The third was a woman kneeling stiffly nearby, her plump face blank with an eerie, vacant expression. Harry had a strange certainty: she was under the Imperius Curse.
"How disappointing! You didn't even manage to exchange a word with him, you worthless thing." A cold, piercing voice came from behind the chair. "You didn't even try."
"I tried!" The man, clearly in pain, sobbed. "They were watching him too closely. Dumbledore was watching him the whole time, and there were Aurors everywhere—"
"All excuses. It appears the Cruciatus Curse has not yet taught you your lesson," the cold voice said. "Nagini, I cannot feed him to you yet—he is still of some use. But there is always Harry Potter…"
The snake hissed, and Harry saw its tongue flicker.
"And as for her," the cold voice continued, "you actually let her follow you here. How careless."
"She came of her own accord—I had no idea!" the man said breathlessly, his voice strangely familiar.
Who was it? Harry wondered, bewildered.
"Silence. Worthless." The cold voice paused. "Fortunately, she has brought some useful news: my servant has returned to his place. However, I always prefer to be certain. Now, perhaps I should remind you of what carelessness costs…"
"Please—don't—"
The pale tip of a wand appeared from beside the chair, levelled at the dazed woman. "Avada Kedavra."
A flash of green light. The man screamed in terror, as though his soul had been set alight.
Harry's scar erupted in burning pain. He could no longer contain his fear and cried out.
"Harry! Harry!" Ron's anxious voice broke through.
Harry opened his eyes to find himself on the floor of the Divination classroom, his hands pressed over his face, tears running through his fingers. The pain was as real as anything he had ever felt.
His entire class had gathered around him. Ron was kneeling beside him, looking terrified.
"Are you all right?" Ron asked in a confused and frightened voice.
"Of course he is not all right!" Professor Trelawney exclaimed, her great eyes wide as she bore down on Harry with barely concealed excitement, as though he were a new planet she was eager to chart.
"It's nothing," Harry lied to Ron.
He trembled as he sat up, looking around at the shadowy room, but found no trace of the snake, the huddled figures, or that cold voice—even though in his dream, the voice had felt close enough to touch.
Professor Trelawney pressed in, interrogating him with great interest about every detail of the dream, claiming that Harry had been touched by the extrasensory atmosphere of her classroom and was about to "see a future that had never been revealed to him before."
"I'd settle for a cure for this headache," Harry said flatly. "I'm going to the hospital wing."
He said a quiet goodbye to Ron and, ignoring Professor Trelawney's rapturous commentary, picked up his schoolbag and stepped through the trapdoor.
Once clear of the North Tower, however, he did not take the route to the hospital wing. Instead, he turned toward the West Tower, climbed the narrow spiral staircase, and emerged into the cold, wind-swept Owlery at its summit.
The shed was cold and desolate, strewn with straw, owl droppings, and pellets of rat bones. Every now and then, an owl would swoop in through the window with a small twitching prey in its beak.
Harry found Hedwig without much trouble—she was perched on her branch, preening her snow-white feathers with her beak, unmistakeable among hundreds of grey and brown owls.
He greeted her listlessly, took out a roll of parchment and a quill, placed the paper on the narrow windowsill, and began to write.
Sirius,
My scar is hurting again—during Divination class. I also had some strange dreams. Can we meet tonight?
Harry
He reread the short letter, rolled the parchment, and carefully tied it to Hedwig's leg.
"Go on, Hedwig. Thank you." The weary, dark-haired boy forced a smile at his owl, watching her spread her wings and lift into the clear blue sky toward Hogsmeade.
He felt a little better as Hedwig became a small white speck on the horizon.
Though the chill in his chest remained, at least his throat was no longer as tight as if a stone were lodged inside.
He descended the narrow Owlery steps slowly, uncertain where to go next. The common room meant curious students crowding him with well-meaning but useless concern. His steps slowed on the staircase. "Should I go to Professor Dumbledore's office?" he muttered.
Sirius had told him: if your scar hurts, tell Dumbledore immediately.
Perhaps he should—
Just then, the bell rang for the end of class. A nearby classroom door burst open, and several students spilled out deep in discussion.
"I don't think that's what Pythagoras meant. He was emphasising that the world is built on the power of numbers—not something vague and abstract," a dark-skinned boy said seriously.
"Michael, you can't overlook the Kabbalistic tradition of Jewish mysticism—" said a boy with a hooked nose and a silver-and-blue tie.
"Anthony, you never stop talking about it!" Michael said helplessly.
"In any case, predicting the future through crystal balls, tea leaves, or palmistry is impossible. You can't glean the inner meaning of things from blurry images or random shapes," a third boy concluded, the back of his blond head turned toward Harry.
Harry listened for a moment, a fog drifting through his mind. He understood each word individually, but assembled into sentences they became impenetrable.
What class was this? It didn't resemble anything on his timetable.
"There's an argument that many of our decisions in life can be predicted through numbers—from the friends we make to what we eat for breakfast," Michael said with great enthusiasm. "I'm actually testing the method on my own breakfasts—running an experiment."
"Merlin's ruler, aren't you a bit too keen on these experiments? I accept the logic of how numbers interact, but reducing life to the same precision as weighing Potions ingredients misses something—the pleasure of unexpected surprises." The blond boy turned around, and Harry recognised Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff.
"A pleasant surprise—or perhaps a shock. Some would say rational method is more reliable than the occasional foolish outburst of human emotion. Isn't that right, Terry?" Michael turned to a boy who had yet to get a word in, and Harry noticed that Michael was also wearing a silver-and-blue tie.
The boy named Terry Boot smiled and said, "How can a wizard's short lifespan compare to the wisdom accumulated over two thousand years of magical knowledge?"
Hearing this, Harry was fairly certain he knew what class these students were in.
Just a month ago, he had heard a pair of top students say something similar by the Black Lake—when he and Ron, bored with Wizard's Chess, had sneaked up and eavesdropped on what turned out to be a hushed conversation about Arithmancy.
"I have absolutely no idea what they're talking about," Harry had read in Ron's eyes.
What kind of couple discusses academics in that situation? Ron had gleaned this from the corner of Harry's mouth.
The two had exchanged a rueful look and were about to slip away when the Slytherin boy heard them and spun around, drawing his wand.
He levelled it at Harry's nose and asked with cold precision, "What are you doing—you two?"
Hermione, glancing at them with mild inconvenience, sighed from behind him. "Oh—I forgot about them." A pause. "H is—"
"Eight," Draco continued, still glaring at them, his tone disturbingly calm as he spoke over his shoulder to the girl. "Then it's 1, 9, 9, 8, 1, 1, 4, 5, 1, 7, 6, 2, 2, 5, 9…"
"What in Merlin's name are you two on about? Are you cursing us?" Ron demanded, eyes wide.
"6, 9, 6," Hermione said, a sly smile on her lips. "Draco, perhaps we should look at someone else. Ronald Bilius Weasley," she said, fixing Ron with a strange smile. "We—are—absolutely—not—cursing—you."
"Then why did you say my full name?" Ron asked, aghast, watching the malice glittering in the Slytherin boy's eyes.
Draco raised an eyebrow, parted his thin lips slightly, and rattled off a string of numbers that sounded impressive but were thoroughly opaque: "9, 6, 5, 1, 3, 4, 2, 9, 3, 3, 9, 3, 1, 5, 5, 1, 1, 3, 5, 7…"
"What's wrong with saying your full name?" Harry tugged at Ron's sleeve.
"Harry, a full name carries magical weight for a wizard!" Ron's voice cracked. "They're calculating a curse!"
Draco offered no clarification—only a cold, sinister laugh, drawing out the silence.
"Hermione, make him stop!" Ron hissed.
And then Harry saw the girl behind Draco smile, slowly and deliberately, and offer them three final numbers: "4, 1, 3."
"Run, Harry, run!" Ron seized Harry's sleeve and bolted. "They're working together—a combined incantation is twice as powerful! I bet they've already started!"
Harry, utterly confused, was dragged along as Hermione's bright laughter rang out behind them, and the Slytherin boy shouted gleefully at their retreating backs, "That's right, run! You cannot withstand the wisdom of two thousand years of wizarding knowledge!"
Harry had later learned that Draco and Hermione had simply been working out a numerological fortune—a truth that, while far less terrifying than it seemed, remained thoroughly bizarre.
Recalling Draco's cold stare then, and the relentless spell attacks he had unleashed during practice that very noon, Harry's mouth twitched—and even the pain of his scar retreated briefly.
People who are interested in subjects like Arithmancy and Divination possess a certain unsettling quality. He stepped back, sweating, to avoid walking into the cluster of animated students.
Just then, Ernie Macmillan turned around and spotted Harry.
"Hey, Harry!" He greeted him with a warm smile—all his old hesitation and the "Support Cedric" badge from months ago had vanished without a trace. "Are you waiting for Hermione? She's just behind us."
"Ah—yes, thank you," Harry said quickly, realising that waiting for Hermione was not a bad option at all.
Hermione would understand. At the very least, she would listen calmly and offer a sensible suggestion; she wouldn't be as shocked and helpless as his Divination classmates.
Ernie said goodbye, and he and his Ravenclaw Arithmancy companions—who cast curious glances at Harry as they went—continued their spirited debate down the corridor.
Harry had no interest in returning those looks. He watched the classroom door anxiously, waiting.
Before long, Hermione's face appeared in the thinning stream of students. She was talking to the platinum-blond boy beside her with bright interest, her eyes fixed on him.
The boy who had been so curt with Harry at noon was unrecognisable now. He carried her bag casually over one shoulder, walked at a slow, unhurried pace, and turned his head to listen to her with a warm smile and intent grey eyes.
Harry waved to them both, about to say something—but neither of them noticed him against the wall. They walked straight past.
He stared after them, incredulous, before calling out to their retreating backs, "Hermione! Draco!"
"Harry—" Hermione turned around in surprise. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in Divination?"
Draco turned and gave Harry a sharp look, sensing immediately that something was wrong. "Harry, what's happened?"
"Something has," Harry said, his voice catching. His expression, like a poorly stoppered flask, began to betray the anxiety and unease churning within him.
"One moment—" Draco surveyed the corridor. "Let's find an empty classroom first."
Harry noticed that Draco's manner was unexpectedly gentle now; his coldness had been worn away by the girl beside him. He led them through several turns with practised ease, finally pushing open an unfamiliar door on a quiet corridor, and smiled as he held it open for Hermione.
Behind the door was an abandoned classroom, old desks heaped in one corner and a few chairs placed crookedly in the centre.
Harry followed them in. The Slytherin boy surveyed the dusty chairs with a slight frown, then flicked his wand—they were instantly immaculate.
"Sit down," he said to Harry, pulling out a chair for Hermione first, then taking the one beside her.
While Harry settled into his seat, Draco waved his wand again and conjured a low table. Upon it appeared a large, steaming silver pot and several cups.
"Hot cocoa, Harry? I imagine you're thoroughly sick of Professor Trelawney's tea by now," Draco said, filling the cups with his head down. Hermione, meanwhile, turned her wand toward the door from across the room and cast several locking charms before asking Harry, "What's happened?"
Harry swallowed, took a sip of cocoa, and felt the chill in his chest ease at once. He took a breath, stared into his cup, and began to speak.
He told them everything—the details of the dream, and the fierce, burning pain in his scar.
Silence followed.
Not the alarmed, clamouring silence Harry had braced for. Just stillness.
Harry looked up at them. They were staring at one another with an expression he recognised—matching, gleaming worry.
"That cold voice was Voldemort's," Harry said, watching their faces. "I've heard it before—when the Dementors attacked me. It's appeared in other dreams."
"Perhaps," Draco said carefully, committing to nothing.
"I thought he was gone." Harry's face darkened. "Sirius told me that—at least a few months ago."
"Oh, Harry," Hermione said uneasily, her fingers hidden beneath her robes gripping Draco's hand. "This was probably just a nightmare."
Harry did not believe her. Her tone and expression were at war with her words.
He turned to Draco—the proud Slytherin boy who wouldn't condescend to lying. "Draco. To be honest—do you think this was just a dream?"
Draco met his gaze and, after a moment, said, "No. It may be real."
"Draco!" Hermione interrupted sharply. "He needs to be fully focused on the Tournament! Dumbledore said—"
"Hermione, has it not already come to this?" Draco said seriously, his earlier gentleness replaced by calm certainty. "I know Dumbledore means well, but I believe Harry has the right to know as much as possible—as soon as possible. We cannot always surround him. There are moments when he's alone. He needs to understand what he is facing—things far more dangerous than whatever waits in that labyrinth."
"Fine," Hermione said, her fight leaving her at once.
She lowered her face into her hands. "Harry, please don't be angry. Draco—you tell him."
"Wait. Draco—what do you mean, 'always around me'?" Harry's suspicion sharpened. "Are you following me? What did Dumbledore say to you?"
"Dumbledore has taken certain protective measures. Many eyes are watching you in this castle, and many people are guarding you closely," Draco said calmly. "He's worried you might—"
"Be taken by Death Eaters?" Harry's voice became shrill. "Because of what? Because Voldemort is still alive?"
"Yes," Draco said, holding the gaze of the boy whose face had gone pale. "Since you've already guessed it, I may as well confirm it: the Dark Lord may not have fully disappeared."
"I knew these dreams weren't just nightmares," Harry said. A jolt of dread hit him square in the chest, as though he had missed a step going downstairs.
"In the dream, that man said something like it—that Dumbledore was always watching me, Aurors everywhere." Harry smiled faintly. "So it was true."
Then anger rose to replace the dread. "So Dumbledore knew all along? Does Sirius know? I've always found it odd—he's always so busy, and when I ask him what he's up to, he won't say. Just 'family business.' I've suspected something for a long time."
"Bingo." Draco tilted his head at Hermione, who had her face in her hands. "I told you Harry would sense something was wrong. I never quite understood the point of keeping it from him."
"Don't gloat, Draco." Harry stared across the table, his voice clipped. "When did you two find out? Why did you both know and say nothing? Are you saying I'm not to be trusted?"
"You're not the only one who was kept in the dark. Ron doesn't know either," Draco said coolly.
"Oh, that's a great relief! Knowing someone else is in the dark with me is tremendously comforting!" Harry said with heavy sarcasm. "So I should thank you for the company in my ignorance?"
"Harry, we didn't mean to hide it from you—" Hermione lifted her face, looking at him with ragged breath. "We have been so worried about you."
"They're very worried about me." Harry slammed his cup on the table with a loud crack. "And the way they show it is by keeping secrets! Why should I know the truth? Why should anyone think I deserve to?"
"Harry, we are sorry!" Hermione said. "I understand—I'd be angry too."
"Understand? You two are having a lovely time! It's not as if you're the ones the snake is coming for!" Harry stood, glaring at Hermione. "No matter what the stakes, it doesn't stop you from meeting in the library at your leisure! You probably haven't considered that someone might need the truth about Voldemort being alive even more than you do!"
Hermione opened her mouth. No words came.
Draco could not ignore the sight of her biting her lip, the possibility of tears in her eyes searing right through him.
"Harry, that's enough!" he said sharply.
He took her cold hand and steadied himself, his voice turning stern. "What does any of this have to do with Hermione? Dating? Just for your own pleasure? She worries about you every single day—she can barely focus on spending time with me because of it!"
"Oh, I do beg your pardon that Mr Malfoy and Miss Granger can't concentrate on their romance!" Harry said, his tone scathing. "And I don't even deserve to know—though it should be me who knows most."
"Harry Potter." Draco's face turned cold toward Harry for the first time. "You want the truth? Here it is. No one told us any inside information. Hermione pieced it all together herself. She spent the entirety of the Easter holidays in the library hoping to find something useful, and she hasn't stopped since."
"That doesn't change the fact that you've been hiding it from me!" Harry said, pacing. "I trusted you both—I was ready to tell you everything. But neither of you ever thought of telling me anything. You never truly considered me a friend."
"Harry, that's not true…" Hermione said softly, her wet eyelashes lowered.
"Grow up! Stop throwing tantrums!" Draco's voice rose. He felt her sadness seep into his bones. He gripped her trembling hand, drew a breath, and pushed forward. "You can be angry with me—but you have no right to question her sincerity. What were you doing while she was standing guard for you, scouring books for spells on your behalf? You were playing Wizard's Chess with Ron, building card castles, setting off Weasleys' tricks—and you weren't even doing your homework!"
"As if you don't enjoy those games!" Harry wheeled around and shouted. "You play them better than either of us! Aren't you the undisputed champion?"
"Oh, thank you for the compliment!" Draco said fiercely, his ears reddening.
Harry paused for two seconds. "You're welcome."
"At least we agree on that—those games are genuinely excellent!" Draco rolled his eyes. "But that is not the point, you king of digressions."
"Then what is your point?" Harry demanded. "Did you fly all the way to the ceiling to make it?"
"My point, you ungrateful scarhead, is that she is more devoted to you than any friend you have!" Draco glared, his anger building with every thought. "She may not be as easy or as funny as Ron Weasley, but she has always been doing the difficult, right things. So tell me—why should she have to do so much for you?"
"Oh, Draco—" Hermione looked at him, her voice trembling.
"Don't—it's all right," she whispered. "I chose to do all of it."
But Draco did not stop.
He stood abruptly, slamming his fist on the table to face Harry, and spoke every word of the injustice she had swallowed in silence:
"Let me tell you precisely how she worries about you. Not only does she think about the Dark Lord every day, she urges you on and stays by your side during every practice session! She is often sick with guilt for keeping things from you, but she cannot simply tell you everything at once—so she pours it all into that spell list that keeps growing longer and longer!"
Harry looked at Hermione again. Her face was wet. She was watching her boyfriend with an expression that was both dependent and quietly aggrieved.
Harry rarely saw Hermione cry—she always kept up an unbreakable front. But she was crying now, or close to it.
Harry felt a sudden pang of guilt. He had once told Draco he never wanted to see Hermione cry because of anyone. Draco had always held to that. It was Harry himself who had broken it.
He realised, then, that the boy he had taken for aloof and sharp-tongued—cold to nearly everyone—had been talking without pause, and every word of it was on Hermione's behalf.
"She gave up her own study time and pushed you relentlessly through every spell on that list, hoping only that you would be strong enough to face whatever danger comes," Draco said. "How many friends would do that—selflessly, asking for nothing except your safety? What's most outrageous is that you're now accusing her of never truly thinking of you as a friend." His grey eyes blazed. "Throughout this entire year—did she ever once doubt you? When the whole school turned on you, who stood firm? I saw it clearly. Everything she did was in accordance with her conscience. She deserves to be called a true friend. Do you dare deny it?"
Harry stared across the table at Draco.
He found, to his own irritation, that Draco was completely right. A wave of shame washed over him—though the anger hadn't fully gone.
"I don't deny it," he said at last, his face still stiff, though his tone softened fractionally.
"Then don't be so graceless about it. The moment you hear bad news you can't handle, you take it out on someone generous and innocent." Draco turned his gaze to Hermione, and what he saw there unleashed a final volley of well-aimed sarcasm. He said with cold precision, "Saint Potter! You can forgive an entire school of fools for slandering you, but you cannot forgive your loyal friend for a small, unavoidable omission. That, I suppose, is what it means to be a true Gryffindor—one worthy of drawing a sword from the Sorting Hat."
"I never said that!" Harry's face burned. "I never—"
"If your extraordinary brain has any function besides bearing that scar, try putting it to use." Draco interrupted mercilessly, bending to wipe the tears from his girl's cheek. "Or, since you're so furious at being kept in the dark, why don't you take that anger to your godfather and your all-powerful Headmaster?"
"I will!" Harry's temper flared again. "I intend to! I want to ask them why they kept all of this from me!"
"Don't say that name," Draco snapped.
"Voldemort! Voldemort! Voldemort!" Harry shouted in pure retaliation, watching the Slytherin boy flinch—and now it was Hermione's hand that went to Draco's.
"Harry, stop frightening him like that!" Hermione exclaimed, indignant. "Can you stop being so childish?"
Harry checked himself. He stood still, stared at Draco, and said quietly and deliberately, "Tell me everything, or I'll keep going. You hide things—what kind of friend does that make you?"
"I have always thought you should be told. The one who wanted to keep it from you was neither me nor Hermione." Draco rubbed his temples and said coldly, "And have I not been honest with you today? I've gone against Dumbledore's advice and told you the truth. Is that not enough?"
"Thank you for your honesty. And no—it is not." Harry's anger had softened fractionally; he pressed on regardless. "Tell me everything. Why is he alive again? What does he want? Where is he? What can be done?"
"Harry, calm down. We are speculating—there's no direct evidence yet that he has truly returned." Draco sat back down.
He conjured a teapot and teaware from thin air, seemingly intent on brewing himself something hot regardless of Harry's feelings about tea.
He fiddled with the lid, his face grim, and said, "You have to understand: we haven't hidden anything to deceive you. We thought that presenting an unsubstantiated theory to someone already carrying the weight of the Tournament was the wrong move. A distracted champion is a vulnerable one."
Harry stopped pacing. His anger began, reluctantly, to yield to reason. He swallowed hard and asked, "So—all you know is that he may be alive?"
"That's right. We had nothing solid to give you—until today," Draco said. "Your dream is the strongest evidence we've had."
"I see," Harry said, his voice flat.
He sat back down, his face flushed, and turned to Hermione. "I'm sorry."
Hermione's expression had softened. The tears were gone.
She shook her head and smiled faintly at him, telling him without words that it was all right.
She cleared her throat and said, "Harry, now that you've calmed down—we need to go through the details of your dream and see whether any of it leads somewhere useful."
"Yes," Harry said, subdued. "Have you thought of anything?"
"So," Draco said, setting down his steaming teacup and fixing Harry with the most pressing question he had, "describe for me, in more detail, what that serpent looked like."
Harry's face twitched. "Does that matter?"
"It may matter a great deal," Draco said flatly. "I don't want to miss a single detail."
"It was a great green snake… about twelve feet long, as thick as a man's thigh…" Harry gestured uncertainly. "I believe it was venomous—I can't explain why, I simply knew."
Draco was almost entirely certain it was Nagini—the serpent that had never left the Dark Lord's side in his previous life.
But how did Harry know it was venomous, on the strength of one dream? That was the part that troubled him.
Nagini was indeed venomous—but Harry had no way of knowing that. He had never encountered the snake. The only possible explanation was that Harry had formed some kind of connection with the Dark Lord through that scar.
Through the scar, he had seen what was happening around the Dark Lord.
What kind of magic creates such a bond? Could a rebounded Killing Curse from over a decade ago have such lasting, profound consequences?
Draco's throat tightened as the questions multiplied.
"Well? Have you thought of something?" Harry asked impatiently. "Draco—stop daydreaming."
"Weren't you about to call me 'dead fish eyes' again?" Draco said irritably.
"You called me 'Scarface,'" Harry retorted. "Look—I'm not in a good mood today. Anyone would be a little anxious knowing a giant snake has them in its sights and they don't know when it's coming. Wouldn't you be frightened?"
Frightened? Of course he was frightened. Draco was terrified of that snake. In his previous life he had watched it devour the body of the Muggle Studies professor on his own dining table. The nightmares had lasted a long time.
"You could stand to be a bit braver," Draco said anyway. "You killed a Basilisk—something considerably larger and more dangerous. The Gryffindor sword would sort out that serpent handily enough."
"The person giving that advice told me to use my wand more!" Harry said, exasperated. "Fine—give me something useful. Tell me a spell, at least."
"Those serpents tend to have extremely thick hides. Most jinxes are little more than an itch to them," Draco said, thinking aloud. "Since you're fond of swords, removing the head shouldn't present much difficulty. What's the rush?"
"I'd rather not carry the Gryffindor sword around the castle like an idiot every day," Harry muttered.
Hermione said nothing through all of this. She held the hot tea Draco had brewed, sitting quietly beside him, her gaze fixed on her lap.
"Hermione," Draco said softly, careful not to break any chain of thought flickering in her mind. "What are you thinking?"
"Oh—" She startled slightly. "That phrase—'my servant has returned to his place'—that refers to Barty Crouch Jr., doesn't it? Because of Professor Moody." She glanced at Draco with her tired but sharp eyes.
Draco understood her immediately.
At the time Harry's scar had been aching—following the Easter holidays—Sirius, disguised as Professor Moody, had already been back at Hogwarts. But to the Dark Lord, that Professor Moody was believed to be his loyal lieutenant Barty Crouch Jr. in disguise. If the Dark Lord still believed Moody's return meant "my servant has come back," it meant the Cemetery plot had not been discovered, and the Dark Lord had no idea that Barty Crouch Jr.'s role had been taken over.
That was good news.
"And that man whose voice Harry recognised but couldn't place—I suspect Harry has heard him recently, but not enough to name him." Hermione frowned and murmured.
"You're right, I really can't place it," Harry said, frustrated. "Which brings me to something else—why could I see all of that? Why does my scar hurt?"
"Does it still hurt?" Draco looked Harry over, his voice shifting to concern.
Whenever that scar ached, it meant the Dark Lord was active—never a good sign. And from what Harry had described, the Dark Lord had just killed someone.
"It doesn't, for the moment." Harry pressed his hand to the scar, still looking tense.
Hermione asked quietly, "Did you see him—the Dark Lord—directly? Does he have a body?"
Draco raised an eyebrow. That was exactly the right question.
"I only saw the back of his chair," Harry said, thinking. "I don't believe he had a body."
"Then how did he raise the wand?" Draco and Hermione asked together.
"I'd like to know that myself!" Harry said irritably, feeling suddenly superfluous in the face of the two people thinking in perfect unison.
"He is growing stronger—I don't yet know how," Draco said, his grey eyes clouded as he studied Harry's forehead. "Last year he couldn't even hold a wand. Now he can kill."
Hermione fixed her gaze on Harry's forehead too, falling deep into thought.
Harry felt profoundly uncomfortable under their combined scrutiny.
After a long pause, he asked in a strained voice, "What should I do? If this is real—if all of this is true—how do I stop him?"
"None of us knows that yet. It's beyond the understanding of any of us." Draco sighed and finally poured Harry a cup of tea. "If it's true, it means he is still lurking—and could resurface at any moment. You must stay alert. Harry—your greatest adversary has never been the creatures in a maze. It has always been the Dark Lord himself."
Harry nodded in silence.
"I think you need to go to Dumbledore and tell him everything," Hermione said, snapping out of her reverie. "The Dark Lord mentioned 'double insurance'—which suggests another plan. Dumbledore needs to be warned. So does Sirius."
"I was going to," Harry said.
"This is a critical time. Don't waste it being angry. Get them the information first," Hermione said firmly.
"I know," Harry said, a shadow of worry in his eyes.
"There's no use dwelling on what we don't know," Draco said, recovering his composure. "Let them make the arrangements. What you can do, in the meantime, is master as many spells as possible—for the third task, and whatever else may come."
"Right," Harry said, looking dejected.
Hermione pulled out the spell list and knitted her brows. "What else can we add? Draco, help me think."
"It's difficult to add more," Draco said. "You've gone through everything up to N.E.W.T. level already."
Harry's eyes widened. He stared at the parchment, speechless at Hermione's ruthlessness.
The classroom fell into sombre silence.
"Actually, Harry," a dark magic enthusiast began, clearly attempting to lighten the mood with one of his signature, deeply unfunny suggestions, "I do know a few interesting Dark Arts spells… If you're interested, I could teach you. For example—how to conjure a Dark Mark? It's surprisingly practical. Put one over a house and the Death Eaters will think the job's already been done—"
"Draco!" Hermione's glare was instantaneous. "Don't you dare. You are not corrupting him."
"I genuinely believe it could save a life in a pinch!" Draco argued, then surrendered the moment he saw her expression. "Fine. A Curse Jinx, then? Did you know some powerful curses can pass through a bloodline—"
Harry was briefly cheered watching Draco Malfoy—who was usually impervious to everyone—rendered defenceless by one look from Hermione Granger.
He chuckled as he muttered under his breath, "I wouldn't complain about using Dark magic on Voldemort, personally."
"Don't say that name!" Draco reminded him, rolling his eyes.
Harry's expression said: I've already said it. What are you going to do about it?
"Oh, what a brilliant pair of plans," Hermione said, looking up from the spell list and shaking her head. "The only problem is: how do you cast a blood curse on someone who doesn't currently have a body?"
Harry blinked. He had no answer.
"You know," Draco said to him, with the manner of someone conceding a point he was never going to win, "she's right. Every time." He shrugged. "Never mind the Dark Arts diversion. Harry—focus on your Ironclad Charm."