Harry spent the last week of Christmas break in the library learning all he could about merpeople. Hermione, who had finished all of her homework the first day of break, alternated between helping him and reading over Neville's essays.
"His knowledge of magic is good," she told Harry confidentially one day. "Some of his essays are even as good as yours. It's just practicing magic that he has an issue with."
Since Harry thought that practicing magic was pretty much the whole point of it, he didn't really know that this thought would be a comfort to Neville.
By the time the Sunday before term started had come around, Neville had finished his work and the trio had worked their way through just about every book in the merpeople section. They'd learned quite a lot about what merpeople looked like, the sorts of dwellings they lived in and the fact that they didn't display magical abilities—something that comforted Harry a bit if he did have to fight them—but they hadn't found anything definitive on whether he would.
Harry had also noticed that Hermione had developed a habit of bringing snacks everywhere she went—she was constantly offering him cauldron cakes and pieces of fruit that she had in her bag. Madam Pince had clearly noticed too because when they arrived at the library on Sunday there was a large sign on their usual table with the words "No food allowed" in blinking, violently bright letters.
But Harry was tired of looking through books anyway.
"Come on," Harry said. "We've looked through enough of these books."
Hermione looked at him aghast, as if she were offended on the books' behalf, but followed along with him and Neville as Harry exited the library and headed down the corridor.
"Harry, we have to find these answers," she said, and he could hear the worry in her voice.
"We will," he replied. "But books aren't cutting it."
Hermione definitely looked offended by that statement, but continued to walk with them as Harry cut down the stairs, walked through the entrance hall and out the oak doors of the castle.
"Where are we going?" Neville asked, shivering a bit. As none of them had planned to go outside, they weren't exactly dressed for January in Scotland. Harry continued striding along, clearly set on his path. Hermione followed his fixed gaze.
"Hagrid's?" she asked.
"He knows more about magical creatures than just about anyone," Harry explained.
"Yes, but…isn't he likely to just tell us merpeople are harmless?" Hermione asked. "Even if they're meant to attack you, he'll probably just think they're underwater teddy bears."
Harry thought that was probably an accurate assessment of Hagrid's perspective, but Hagrid still had something the books didn't: Given that he'd lived at Hogwarts for 50 years and was in charge of the grounds, he probably knew these particular merpeople.
In any case, Hagrid was very glad to see them, inviting them in and offering them all a cup of tea. Neville, who had never been on one of these visits, was particularly interested in Hagrid's home—but not particularly interested in sitting anywhere near Fang.
Harry was very glad—and a bit surprised—that Hagrid didn't comment on the fact that Neville was here and not Ron.
"Had a good Christmas, did yeh?" Hagrid asked.
"Yes," Hermione replied. "Thank you for the present."
"Yeah, Hagrid, thanks," Harry added.
Hagrid waved them off. "Was nothing," he said. "Did yeh have a good time at the ball? Firs' one's always exciting."
"We did," Hermione beamed, and Harry felt a bit of pride at how happy she seemed.
"Did you have a good time?" Hermione asked. "I hardly saw you at all."
Harry squirmed a little, thinking of how he had overheard Hagrid and Madame Maxime conversing in low tones and husky voices—she had practically been purring before they'd hurried off to Hagrid's hut together. He really didn't want to hear about that.
But Hagrid's face turned dark. "The ball was alrigh'. We—I—left early though," he said gruffly. Hermione and Neville looked at Harry uncertainly—what was that about?
"But yehs don' wanna hear abou' that," Hagrid said. "Yeh've got more important things ter think abou'. How yeh doin' with that egg, Harry?"
"Great," Harry said. "Really great. Actually, we wanted to ask you something—about those merpeople in the lake?"
"Yeah?" Hagrid asked.
"Well," Harry asked, "what are they like?"
"Oh, they're harmless," Hagrid said, and Hermione shot Harry an I-told-you-so look.
"How do you mean?" Neville asked, taking a sip of the tea Hagrid had offered.
"Well, they've got no magic, 'ave they?" Hagrid asked. "Even if they were ter attack yeh, all they've got is spears and yeh've got a wand. But if yeh really wanna know abou' the merpeople, yeh should ask ol' Kettleburn."
Kettleburn had been the Care of Magical Creatures teacher before Hagrid, and had retired just before the trio had started taking the class.
"He's the one who brought the merpeople ter Hogwarts," Hagrid told them. "Years ago. He was helpin' the Ministry ter deal with some rogue kelpies, and the battle ended up destroyin' the merpeople's home—took most of Kettleburn's left arm, too. So he brought 'em here. Now he's retired, I see him all the time in the Hog's Head—practically lives there."
By the time they left Hagrid's hut, all three were feeling a lot better.
"Well, that's a relief," Hermione declared. "But we should still go talk to Professor Kettleburn when we're in Hogsmeade."
"Hagrid's take on how dangerous creatures are can be a little… skewed," Neville agreed.
The first two weeks of classes passed in a blur—Harry was feeling more confident about the second task now. Feeling cheerful for the first time in ages, Harry had even managed to master banishing charms faster than Hermione—albeit by one pillow—something anyone rarely ever accomplished in any class except for Harry in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Neville didn't have quite the same luck. Instead of the pillow he was aiming for, he often sent Flitwick and their chairs—and once, Flitwick's desk—zooming across the room. But rather than get dejected by his inability to master the spell, Neville told Harry he was just glad Harry was so good at it.
"After all, if the merpeople do pick a fight with you, that's a dead useful spell to know," he said.
Harry couldn't fault the logic in that.
Before he knew it, it was the middle of January and the Hogsmeade weekend was upon them. They had quite a lot to do—Hermione had come up with a plan of attack—so they set out fairly early on the cold January Saturday, passing Viktor Krum diving into the lake in his swimming trunks.
"I guess he's figured out the egg, too," Neville commented.
"I wonder what he's planning to use," Hermione said thoughtfully.
But they didn't have too much time to ponder before they were walking down High Street, straight toward the Apothecary. It was a dark store, filled with jars of slimy substances, fangs and snarled claws hanging from the ceilings and smells so terrible Harry didn't care to identify them. Hermione had to pick up some Potions supplies, and Harry followed Neville straight to the back row of shelves where there were a number of wild and fantastical plants.
Neville inspected the plants with an expert eye, and Harry was very glad he was here, seeing as Harry didn't know what half this stuff was.
"Here," Neville said, grabbing a jar filled with a ball of slimy, greyish green rat tails. "This should last you well over an hour."
Harry took the jar from him and they hurried to the counter, where Hermione was queued up behind Professor Moody.
"Yes, exactly," Moody was saying to Hermione, as Mr. Rothwell wrapped up his boomslang skin and a bicorn horn. "The Impediment Jinx won't protect against truly dark curses like the Unforgivables, but it's an extremely useful spell in an auror's arsenal. At the very least, it can slow down an attack, but when used effectively, it completely stops it."
"And it doesn't seem like a particularly difficult spell to learn?"
"Not at all," Moody shook his head. "Any witch or wizard who can do the Full-Body Bind can master an Impediment Jinx."
Hermione nodded and Moody looked up and saw Harry and Neville.
"All right there, boys?" he said. "Bit early on a Saturday morning for you kids, even if it is a Hogsmeade weekend."
"Well, we've a lot to do," Hermione explained. Rothwell handed Moody his packages, and Moody moved out of the way for Hermione to purchase her things.
"How's that egg, Potter?" Moody asked conspiratorially, before his eye moved down to the jar Harry was holding. Moody grinned. "Well in hand, I see."
"Yes, sir."
"Good for you, Potter," he added, before turning and leaving the shop.
After purchasing their things, they headed straight to the Hog's Head.
"I figured it was best to get here as early as possible, seeing as how we don't know when Kettleburn usually comes by," Hermione said.
"Do you know what he looks like?" Neville asked. They'd never had him as a teacher, and Kettleburn rarely spent much time in the castle during their first two years at Hogwarts, never even attending most of the feasts.
"He'll be the one with all the wooden limbs," Hermione said grimly.
The Hog's Head was not what Harry was expecting. He knew it was a pub in town, and thought perhaps it'd be a bit like the Three Broomsticks. Instead, it was a dark, dingy place where even the dishrags looked filthy. Instead of a raucous crowd, there were only a few patrons—most of whom looked like they'd fit in better in Azkaban—and the bartender was eyeing them suspiciously. Harry patted his hair down over his scar.
"Are you sure we're allowed to be in here?" Neville whispered.
"No," Hermione said. "But the Goblin Rebellion of 1612 was based out of this inn. If anything, we'll say we were just doing research for Binns' essay."
Marveling at Hermione's ability to come up with believable lies, Harry looked around and spotted a man with wooden limbs—all but his right arm—in the corner. While his body was that of a man who looked like he'd been through war, his face was jolly and round. He looked to be the only man in this place who wasn't likely to steal all their galleons.
Harry motioned to his friends, and they followed him over to Kettleburn.
"Hi," Hermione said brightly, once they were in front of him. Kettleburn swept his gaze over the three of them, focusing in on Harry's scar.
"I know who you are," he said, and Harry wished he had patted his hair down more. "Sit down, sit down," he gestured, before turning to the barkeep. "Aberforth, get us three butterbeers, will you?"
Harry, Hermione and Neville took their seats in the three rickety chairs at Kettleburn's table, and he turned his eyes back on Harry. "Biggest regret of my career is not teaching you," he said, pointing a wooden finger at Harry, who felt altogether uncomfortable. "Mind you I'm glad I stopped when I did and have still got this arm at least"—he pointed to his right arm—"but imagine that: There's a basilisk in my school the entire time I'm teaching and it's a second year who figures it out."
Oh. That Harry had not been expecting.
"Well, it was really Hermione who figured it out," he told Kettleburn, gesturing to Hermione. "I just followed her directions."
"He's just being modest," she added quickly, blushing a bit. "He's the one who figured out where it was and how to get to it."
"Two prodigies then," Kettleburn declared, grinning, as the barkeep brought over three very dusty bottles of butterbeer. Neville eyed them warily, but Harry sipped his. It was a bit warm, but it was good.
"Hagrid's told me all about you, you know," Kettleburn added, looking at Harry once again. "About what a natural gift for the class that you've got."
Harry blinked in surprise. He assumed Hagrid likely thought that since Harry was one of the few students who didn't run in terror from the monsters Hagrid tended to prefer. Kettleburn must have read Harry's disbelief on his face because he continued, "A boy who befriends centaurs, house elves and werewolves, who gets a hippogriff to let it ride him on the first try, who earns the respect of an acromantula—"
"Aragog tried to kill me!"
"Yes, but he told you what you wanted to know first, didn't he?" Kettleburn asked, a mixture of impatience and admiration in his tone. "That's as much respect as an acromantula will give a stranger. It's clear you have a deep respect for and understanding of magical creatures and beings, boy. There aren't many wizards who possess that particular gift. Most see non-wand carriers as beneath them."
Harry could feel himself blushing at the praise; Hermione was beaming at him, while Neville looked impressed.
"Well, what brings you to the Hog's Head? We don't usually see students in here," Kettleburn asked.
"Well, we were hoping you could tell us a bit about the merpeople in the lake at Hogwarts," Hermione said, taking the lead.
Kettleburn eyed Harry carefully before grinning. "So Dumbledore roped them into this Triwizard business, did he?" he asked. "What have you got to do?"
Harry didn't think there was any point in lying—Kettleburn had clearly figured out the truth—so he told him about the treasure.
"If that's all it is, they won't be bothering you," Kettleburn said, taking a sip of his mead. "Haven't you all heard the stories? Jack Wickleby, the Pirate Wizard?"
"Er, yes," Hermione said. "But aren't those just children's stories?"
Kettleburn let out a bellowing laugh that caused Hermione and Neville to jump a bit.
"Jack Wickleby is no more fictional than the tales of Beedle the Bard," he said. "He lived in Poseidon's Cove a thousand years or so ago. There's plenty of documentation of that."
He eyed the trio, who had a mixture of hope and trepidation in their eyes.
"Dumbledore's got a peculiar sense about things," he explained. "He'd find it thematically fitting to base a dangerous event on something out of a children's story."
Harry thought about the man he knew—who'd used the Mirror of Erised to hide the philosopher's stone so that only someone who wanted to find it and not use it could retrieve it—and thought perhaps that Kettleburn had a point. He glanced at Hermione and from the calm, cheerful look on her face, saw that she had reached the same conclusion.
Neville was glancing between the two of them, saw that Harry and Hermione believed Kettleburn, and then he grinned, his entire face changing, glowing with pride—he'd been the one to originally propose the idea after all.
But Harry decided to push his luck a bit further.
"Where can I find the merpeople?" he asked. "Once I get down there?"
Kettleburn eyed him contemplatively, sizing him up. Harry stared right back, trying very much to look like the sort of person Kettleburn would want to help. But apparently, Hagrid's praise of Harry's exploits had left an impression.
"Have any of you got some parchment?" Kettleburn asked. "Let me draw you a map."
"Good thing you're a prodigy, huh Harry?" Neville asked, grinning good naturedly, as they stepped out of the dark pub, a newly drawn map of the black lake in Harry's pocket. Harry blinked at the sudden brightness. "I'm pretty sure Kettleburn would've offered to go down there himself for you if you asked."
"That would rather defeat the point of the worthy person being the one to retrieve it though, wouldn't it?" Hermione commented, before smiling at Neville. "What a relief you were right about that one, Neville."
Neville grinned at her. "Honeydukes?" he offered. Harry was absolutely ready to do something fun, but Hermione shook her head.
"I have to pick some things up from Gladrags," she said. "Why don't you two go ahead, and we can meet up at the Three Broomsticks? Get some proper butterbeer."
And so she headed north, while Harry and Neville headed in the other direction. They were just passing by Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop when Harry spotted Cho Chang and Cedric Diggory, hand in hand, turning off High Street and into a storefront Harry had never been before: Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop.
"What's that?" Harry asked.
"Madam Puddifoot's?" Neville asked, wrinkling his nose. "Some frilly tea shop the girls seem to like. It's all doilies and bows. We had to pop in there once because Seamus really needed to use the loo. It was awful."
Harry frowned. "I wouldn't think that's Cho's sort of place," he said, as he and Neville continued walking down High Street.
"Well, you don't really know her, do you?"
Harry looked up at Neville, surprised, but Neville was looking back at Harry like he had just said the most obvious thing in the world.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, how many conversations have you actually had with her?" Neville asked diplomatically. "That were more than just, 'Nice quidditch match'?"
Well, none, Harry thought irritably, but what did Neville know about it?
Harry looked at his friend—Neville was grinning knowingly—and Harry realized Neville had interpreted Harry's silence correctly.
"She might very well be fanciable," Neville said, "but the way I see it, you can't actually know that unless you really talk to her. She's pretty, but for all we know, she could be awful or just… perfectly fine, but all wrong for you."
"Or she could be great," Harry countered.
"She could be," Neville agreed, as they passed Zonko's. He was silent for a moment, and Harry could tell he was weighing something, something that must be fairly huge.
Finally, Neville spoke. "Did you know I used to have the hugest crush on Hermione?"
What?
Harry's head snapped up and he turned to look at Neville, who did not look the least bit embarrassed to be telling Harry something so personal, and merely shrugged his shoulders.
"I fancied her ever since the first day on the Hogwarts Express," he continued. "She was the only person who stopped to help me look for Trevor"—Harry felt a flash of guilt remembering how he and Ron hadn't been particularly concerned when Neville asked them about Trevor—"and she didn't just help look for him; she totally took over the search."
That sounded exactly like Hermione.
"And then she was always helping me in classes, and there was that time she saved Trevor from being poisoned," Neville continued, "so I sort of couldn't help but fancy her."
Harry considered that. Hermione had always been something of a knight in shining armor for Neville. He couldn't help but grin inwardly, picturing Hermione dressed up like Sir Cadogan, her bushy hair sticking out from under her helmet.
"Is that why you asked her to the Yule Ball?" Harry asked.
"Nah," Neville said. "By then I had pretty much realized we should just be friends."
"So what happened?" Harry asked.
Neville shrugged. "This year did," he said. "I always knew Hermione obviously—in classes and chatting over meals—but I never spent as much time with her as I have the past couple of months. I had admired her so much that I sort of built her up as this totally different person in my head. Don't get me wrong, she's great—and a brilliant friend—but now that I actually know her… well, we wouldn't exactly suit, would we?"
Harry pondered that, frowning. He was the furthest thing there was from a relationship expert, but trying to picture Neville and Hermione together unsettled him a bit. No, they wouldn't suit.
"The way I see it, the best thing I could've done was actually talk to her," Neville said. "Because now I've got a great friend and I won't waste any more years fancying a girl I wouldn't even really want to date anyway."
They'd reached Honeydukes, and Neville opened the door. As they slipped inside, Harry considered Neville's words. Talk to Cho. He supposed it wasn't a particularly novel concept.
They entered the Three Brooksticks a half hour later—it seemed more crowded than usual, a cacophony of laughter, shrieking and competing conversations—searching out Hermione. They found her sitting in the corner with Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet, speaking furiously. Her demeanor was hostile, her face stormy. Something was wrong.
Harry and Neville hurried over.
"What happened?" Harry asked, watching them all carefully.
"That awful woman!" Hermione fumed.
"She's talking about that Skeeter cow," Angelina clarified for them.
"She was in here trying to get dirt on you," Hermione said heatedly. "Asking Susan and Hannah all sorts of questions about you. And after everything she wrote about you and Professor Lupin—"
"We thought we were going to have to pull Hermione off her," Angelina said, looking admiringly at her. "She ripped right into her though. It was brilliant."
"It was what she deserved!" Hermione seethed. "She was clearly trying to get Hannah and Susan to say something terrible about you. They didn't, of course, but that's not the point."
Hermione's eyes were narrowed, dark and dangerous, and her mouth was twisted into an angry grimace. Even her hair seemed a little more frazzled than usual. Harry was sorry she was so upset, but he also couldn't help but be grateful for Hermione's defense of him.
Angelina and Alicia offered to go get a round of butterbeers for them all, and Harry and Neville slid into their seats.
"Thanks," Harry said, and Hermione gave him a small smile, seeming to relax a bit. She'd stopped glowering at any rate. She picked up one of two bags she had gotten from Gladrags and handed it to him.
"Here," she said.
"What is it?" Harry asked, peering inside.
"Swimming trunks," Hermione said. "They should be the right size."
Harry looked at her, bewildered, as he pulled blue swimming trunks out of the bag.
"Well, you can't exactly go swimming in the lake in front of everyone in your pants the way you did the prefects' bathroom," Hermione explained, a hint of exasperation in her tone, though she was blushing.
Harry could feel his face growing hotter at his best friend mentioning his unmentionables. He snuck a glance at Neville whom he could see was trying very hard not to laugh at the pair of them, and looked away quickly. Seeing Angelina and Alicia making their way back, Harry stuffed the trunks in the bag, hoping to avoid any comments from them.
"Thanks," Neville said, as the girls put the drinks down. Harry nodded his agreement and took a particularly large sip.
"You don't think Rita Skeeter will try to get payback for this, do you?" Alicia asked, as she sat back down, and Neville looked apprehensive at the thought.
But Hermione's expression was one of steel. "Let her try," she said icily.
As the days passed, Harry and Neville looked out for any sign that Rita Skeeter would retaliate against Hermione, but each morning the Daily Prophet was dropped off without any hint of Hermione—or Harry.
And by early February, Harry had begun to relax a bit about it. In addition to the banishing charm, he, Hermione and Neville spent time learning the impediment jinx—Hermione and Neville taking turns being his opponent—so Harry had another spell in his arsenal in case something went wrong and the merpeople tried something. He'd also spent a good deal of time studying—and memorizing—Kettleburn's map.
Unfortunately, taking his guard down about Rita and feeling ready for the second task left him open to worrying about other things—namely, whomever put his name in the goblet of fire. Did they just want him to participate in the tournament, hoping it would kill him? Or did they have something extra planned, knowing it would kill him? And was it Voldemort himself who had ordered it done, or some Death Eater's idea of a funny joke, like the muggle baiting at the World Cup had been?
"What's wrong?" Hermione asked on one particularly sunny Saturday as they sat in the common room. Hermione were revising for Charms, but Harry didn't have anything to take his mind off of Voldemort.
Not wanting to scare her—they hadn't really talked about why he was in the tournament to begin with much lately—Harry said, "Nothing."
Hermione gave him an unconvinced look, making it clear she didn't believe him. "It's the task, isn't it?" she asked.
That wasn't technically a lie, so Harry nodded.
"You're as ready as you can be for it, Harry," she said, glancing down at her arm. "Well, except for this." She pulled off her watch and handed it to him.
"I've got a watch," he said.
"Mine's waterproof," she explained, as he put it in his pocket. Realizing that she needed something to tell time, Harry took off his watch and handed it to her.
"Thanks," she said, smiling. "We have a good plan for the task. And if…"
She trailed off, her face uncertain, and Harry realized she had been worrying about Voldemort, too.
"And if whomever put my name in the cup tries something, you mean?" he asked.
Hermione looked up, twisting her hands together. He saw a flicker of fear in her eyes, but then she said in as confident a voice as she could muster, "Dumbledore will be looking out for anything amiss."
That was true, and the thought comforted Harry a bit.
"And besides," Hermione said softly, "you're a great wizard, remember?"
She'd always had unwavering faith in him, and while Harry wasn't always sure he deserved it, that thought comforted him even more.
Hermione smiled nervously. "Right, what I think you've got to do now is try to take your mind off things. Play some exploding snap or"—she glanced outside at the clear blue sky—"or go fly a broom."
That didn't sound like a bad idea to Harry at all. It had been months—since the first task to be precise—since Harry had been flying. He looked around the room. Fred and George were listlessly tossing a ball they'd conjured back and forth, and Katie Bell was sitting with some other fifth years, inspecting her hair for split ends.
They were all bored, it seemed.
He looked back at Hermione and smiled. "You are brilliant!" he said, and she smiled back at him, waving him on.
He rose and walked purposefully to Fred and George. They sat up, looking at him expectantly.
"Want to play some quidditch?" Harry asked. They looked at him like he was mental.
"Have you forgotten the season was canceled?" Fred asked.
"When's that ever stopped the two of you?" Harry retorted. Fred and George looked at each other.
"He makes a good point, brother," Fred said. "We can round up the girls, play some three on three."
"Break into storage and steal out the balls," George said.
"That's good," Harry nodded. "But I was thinking we should have a proper game. Can you two round up the team and find us a decent keeper? Then meet me at the pitch in a half hour?"
"What are you going to do?"
Harry grinned. "Find us an opponent."
It was a ludicrous plan—but he didn't want to just fly a broom. He'd been entered into this tournament against his will and it had taken over his life. Quidditch was one of his favorite things about Hogwarts, and he was taking it back.
He ran up to his room and checked the Marauders Map. Roger Davies was snogging some sixth-year Hufflepuff, Carina McDonald, in Flitwick's classroom—an activity he didn't care to interrupt again if he didn't have to—but Cedric Diggory was in the library with his friends.
Harry headed to the library.
Cedric's friends saw him before Cedric did, and he could hear them whispering about him, sniggering. Cedric looked up.
"Hey, Harry," he said, sending a warning look to his friends. "What's up?"
"Do the Hufflepuffs want to play quidditch?"
Cedric blinked in surprise. "What?"
"The Gryffindors are bored," Harry said. "We—"
"Lying your way into the tournament isn't as fun as you'd thought it would be?" one of Cedric's friends asked nastily. Harry felt his anger rising, but did his best to ignore it.
"Look," he said, focusing only on Cedric and not his git of a friend, "we want to play, and it's either you or the Ravenclaws, and I don't exactly fancy going to Flitwick's classroom and breaking up Davies snogging Carina McDonald—"
"What?" Cedric's nasty friend exclaimed, his face going red. He packed up his things hastily, running out of the library. His friends watched him go, a mixture of concern and exasperation.
"So do you want to play?" Harry asked. "It's perfect quidditch weather outside, and it's got to be more fun than studying for all of these tasks."
Cedric considered him for a moment, before looking down at his books. He looked up again, and Harry could see the decision in his eyes. "Yeah, all right," he said. "We'll be there."
Harry grinned.
By the time he made it down to the Gryffindor changing rooms, the rest of the team was already there, along with Alan Peakes, a seventh year who never got a chance to play on account of Wood being so good, but whom Harry knew to be a decent flyer.
Fred and George had already stolen the balls out of storage, along with the megaphone Lee Jordan usually used to announce the games. Harry looked at them quizzically.
"You didn't think this wouldn't attract a crowd, did you?" Fred asked.
And sure enough, by the time the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff teams walked out of the changing rooms, the stands were filled with Hufflepuff, Gryffindor and even Ravenclaw students. Harry looked up into the stands and saw Neville and Hermione. The rest of his year was sitting a little ways down—even Ron—and on the other side of the Creevey brothers was Ginny, sitting with Luna, gesturing excitedly at the pitch.
Roger Davies, with a fresh black eye, was standing with Cedric Diggory and the Hufflepuff team.
"He's agreed to referee," Cedric informed them.
Just as they were about to kick off, Harry caught sight of a tall figure making his way toward Neville and Hermione: Viktor Krum. Cedric clearly saw him, too. Harry exchanged glances with the Hufflepuff seeker and knew they were thinking the same thing: Neither of them fancied playing seeker in front of one of the world's best.
But as Harry kicked off and felt the wind whipping through his hair, he let all of his worries go: No matter what else was happening in his life, flying always made sense to him. Even Voldemort couldn't touch him up here.
"And, they're off," yelled Lee Jordan excitedly, "with Spinnet taking possession of the quaffle—she passes to Johnson who passes to Bell—these chasers have clearly been practicing in their off-time—and Bell is speeding toward the goal…"
Harry had risen well above the action, all the better to see the snitch and avoid bludgers; Diggory did the same. Harry circled around looking for that familiar glint. A part of him wanted to try out the Wronski Feint—Wood had tried to explain it to him so many times, but now that he'd seen it done professionally at the Quidditch World Cup, Harry thought he could manage it properly—but he didn't fancy trying it out in front of Viktor Krum, nor did he think it was right to purposefully send Cedric Diggory crashing into the ground in what was supposed to be a friendly game.
"Bell passes to Johnson, with only Rickett, the Hufflepuff beater, in her way. He aims—"
But Rickett didn't aim the bludger at Angelina. Instead, he sent it directly at Harry, who flipped over on his broom, narrowly avoiding the hit, George streaking by him to take control of the bludger.
"And JOHNSON SCORES," Lee screamed, "because the Hufflepuff beater thought it was a smarter idea to send the bludger at the Gryffindor seeker—with the snitch nowhere near him, I might add—instead of the Gryffindor chaser who was about to score. I guess someone is still a little salty about the Triwizard Tournament."
Harry's face burned a little, and he snuck a glance at Cedric, who had flown down to his two beaters.
"Preece in possession of the quaffle, heading down the pitch—and he gets nailed by Weasley—one of them, can't quite tell which one at the moment, but whichever Weasley he is, he's doing what a beater is supposed to do."
Diggory finished talking to his beaters, as Katie took possession of the quaffle again. Diggory flew back up to Harry's height and nodded at him. Harry nodded back.
There were no more bludgers sent Harry's way, and he and Cedric circled around, looking for one hint of the snitch, while the chasers flitted back and forth.
The stands had gotten more full—now, all of Ravenclaw house was in attendance, as well as some Slytherins, still sporting their Potter Stinks badges. Harry noticed the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students had made their way over as well.
"Johnson goes for the goal," Lee Jordan said excitedly, "but is thrown off course by Rickett, losing the quaffle. Oh, but Spinnet manages to recover the quaffle and SHE SCORES!"
Just as Alicia scored yet another goal—bringing the score to 50-40 in Gryffindor's favor, Harry saw two things: One was Professor McGonagall hurrying toward the pitch, a sight that made his stomach drop; the other was the snitch, hovering about 20 feet off the ground.
He dove, feeling the biting wind across his face; Diggory was right behind him. Rickett aimed another bludger at Harry, which was expertly deflected by Fred. 60 feet… fifty feet… forty feet… Harry's mind went blank as he focused in on the snitch, mentally willing himself to go faster.
Harry could feel Diggory on his heels, but his broom was no match for Harry's Firebolt.
"Will you look at that Firebolt go!" Lee Jordan was screaming. "You can really see that precision balance in a long sprint like this—"
Harry felt his hand close around the snitch—"GRYFFINDOR WINS!"—and pulled up to avoid crashing into the ground, managing to slow to a stop and tumble off in as graceful a manner as was probably possible.
"POTTER CATCHES THE SNITCH AND GRYFFINDOR WINS!" Lee Jordan yelled.
Harry looked up, beaming, but a shadow fell over him. It was Professor McGonagall.
"What is the meaning of this?" she asked, her lips a thin line. Harry stood up gingerly.
"I caught the snitch," he said, holding it out to her.
Professor McGonagall looked very much like she wanted to roll her eyes. "Yes, I'm aware of that Potter," she retorted. "I was speaking more generally about the game. I seem to recall quidditch being canceled this year."
Harry could feel Cedric Diggory standing beside him.
"Well, you see, Professor," Harry said, "I believe what Professor Dumbledore said was that the staff wouldn't have time to put together a quidditch season on account of all the work you had to do with the tournament. So, you see, we just decided to… help you out a bit."
McGonagall stared at Harry and Cedric. "And the two of you didn't think you had enough going on with the second task?" she asked. "That's not an important enough matter worthy of your time?"
Cedric looked contrite, but something in Harry snapped. He had done this precisely so he didn't have to think about the tournament for once, and he'd just had a great afternoon doing something he actually loved. He wasn't about to apologize for that.
"I never wanted to do the stupid tournament," he retorted. "You know that, Professor. But I've done it anyway, haven't I? But I don't see why I should have to give up quidditch, too."
He looked up at her defiantly, and he could swear her lips twitched. Cedric was watching him appraisingly.
"Everything all right," Professor?" Fred asked. He and George had flown down, joining them.
"I suppose liberating the balls and the megaphone from Madam Hooch was your doing?" she said to them.
Fred looked at her, shocked, his hand raised to his heart as if she had wounded him.
George leaned in closer to her, cupping his hand over his mouth and mock whispered, "I think that was the Hufflepuffs. They've always been a dodgy sort to me."
Harry grinned and Cedric looked very much like he was trying not to laugh.
"Honestly, professor, we were just trying to have a bit of fun," Cedric said, and then he gestured to the crowd, particularly the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students. "Besides, isn't this part of what the tournament's for? Showing the other schools what Hogwarts is all about?"
McGonagall was silent for a moment, looking around the pitch. "50 points each for Hufflepuff and Gryffindor for sportsmanlike behavior," she finally said. And then, noticing their referee, she added, "And 10 for Ravenclaw too, I suppose."
The four boys grinned at her.
"Make sure you put everything away properly," she said, with a severe look at Fred and George.
Before she turned away, she gave all of them an appraising look. "And next time you decide to play a rogue game of quidditch, do remember to invite me."
"Yes, ma'am," Fred grinned at her, as he and George gave her mock salutes. They turned to the crowd and raised their arms in victory. Harry grinned, but felt Cedric's eyes on him.
"What?" Harry asked.
"You really didn't put your name in the goblet of fire, did you?" he asked.
"No, I didn't," Harry replied emphatically, and for some reason, it was important for Cedric to believe him.
Cedric was silent a moment, before nodding. "Good game, Harry," he said, holding out his hand. Harry shook it.
"Good game."
Cedric walked off toward the changing rooms, but Harry found himself at the bottom of a pile on of the Gryffindor team. It was a frenzy of people clapping him on the back, shouting, "We won! We won!" and by the time Harry finally surfaced from the mob, Hermione and Neville were headed his way.
"You did great, Harry!" Neville enthused.
"Viktor said you were fantastic," Hermione agreed, and Harry couldn't help but flush a little at praise like that from a professional.
"I can't believe he wanted to watch," Harry replied.
"Well, you know, he really enjoyed hanging out with us all at the ball," Hermione said, "and I think he just likes being part of a group."
Neville nodded. "I got the impression it's been a long time since he's gotten to just watch a game of quidditch," he added.
"Harry!" Katie called. "Quit dawdling and go get changed!"
Harry turned back to his friends—Neville was flicking a beetle off Hermione's shoulder—and told them he'd be out in a few. No doubt Fred and George were already planning a celebration in the common room.