"Ever since that day, I've had this fear of fire. And lizards. But...mostly fire."

The night before the First task Ben found himself pulled into an empty classroom by Hermione. For the last three days the pair of them had been nose deep in texts, taking a crash course on dragons: their physiology, behavior, the forty-five different species, on anything and everything they could find that might help him survive tomorrow. He had a plan, and had confidence it would work.

He knew Hermione well enough to know that this confidence was not shared. She kept her bottom lip in her teeth and her fingers wound around each other, every now and again making an effort to smooth the riot of curls falling down her shoulders. She faced away from him, staring out the classroom window as he leaned against a desk and waited. "I don't like this," she said quietly.

Ben smiled slightly. "I know. Dragons, right? What were they thinking?"

Hermione made an irritated sound. "Not that!" she paused. "Okay, not only that. I don't like any of this."

"How do you mean?"

She whirled around and glared at him. "Where do I start? You, being illegally entered and forced to compete? Or how about nobody believing that? How about the fact that he is trying to kill you again? Or that your best friend doesn't believe in you? Or – or that you could die, Ben. I've done the research, you know me, and more champions get killed in this stupid thing than not and – and I don't want you to die."

The rising moon put silver on everything. Her pale skin shone and he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. Tears he knew she would refuse to let spill. His fingers curled into his palms and dug in. He never knew what to do when a girl cried, and it always tore at him. Here, now, seeing Hermione on the verge of losing it, did something to him. Inside, a chain snapped, and suddenly he was moving. Wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his chest.

"I don't want to die either," he confessed into her hair. "and I'm scared, Hermione. I'm so close to losing it right now it's not funny...but we know now."

"Know what?" she whispered into his chest. If his shirt was wetter than it had been before, he wasn't saying anything.

"What to do," he murmured. "we have a plan, Hermione, and that – it makes me feel like St. George. I feel like as scared as I am and as dangerous as those monsters are...it's going to be okay."

Hermione pulled away. "But you don't know for sure! You don't – you can feel like a dragon slayer all you like, Ben, but that doesn't make you one and I...you...damn it."

Ben's shock at her swearing was pushed aside by this new ability to act, and he brushed his thumbs under her eyes, cupping her cheeks in his palms and trying not to be amazed at how smooth her skin was. "I don't know what to tell you to make you believe in me – "

"It's not you I don't believe in!" she cut him off, hands curling around his wrists. "It's never you...I know what you can do, Ben, but...dragons..."

"But I'm the Boy Who Lived, I can do anything." he said, smiling. She gave a watery chuckle and released his hands to pull away enough to wrap her arms around him, tucking her forehead into the hollow of his neck.

"Of course. How could I forget?"

It took them a while to put themselves back together. When they did she pressed a kiss to his cheek, led him by the hand to the common room, and spent the evening on the couch by the fire, pressed against his side. It wasn't armor, and he wasn't St. George, but he'd be damned if it didn't make him feel like he was.

Fleur's dreams the night before the task weren't, as one might suspect, about dragons. That would make too much sense. No, her night was occupied by dreams of Harry, specifically dreams of things she wouldn't mind if Harry did to her. Things that would startle her into waking, flushed and sweating, with a curious rush in her veins, a desire for... him.

The breakfast table might not be the greatest place to have an epiphany but it's where she was, trying to force down some dry toast on a nervous stomach, when the realization that she was falling for him crashed into her like a speeding train. "Damn it," she murmured, dropping her face into her hands, "I do not need this right now."

"Don't need what?" a new voice asked. She yelped and looked up to see Emilie looking down at her, curiosity and...was that amusement?...on her face.

"N-nothing," Fleur stammered. Since when did she stammer? Damn you, Potter. Her friend arced a brow, clearly not buying it, and sat next to her. She reached for a roll and for a whole, glorious instant Fleur thought the matter had been dropped.

"Doesn't sound like nothing," Emilie commented, buttering a croissant. Or at least, what passed for one here in England. "In fact, sounds an awful lot like a something to me. So, tell me, or I'll pester you forever."

"You're going to do that anyway." Fleur pointed out, to which her friend waved the croissant in an airy manner.

"Details," now it was pointed at her, "Talk, bird-brain."

Bird-brain? Fleur mouthed, then shook her head rapidly. "I...never mind. I may have realized something. Something important."

Emilie nodded sagely, humming around the roll she'd stuffed whole into her mouth. Once she'd gotten it down she nodded again and asked, "Is it to do with Harry? It is, isn't it? It can't be about dragons, you now know more about them than my father – and he wrote one of the books you read – so it's not about them. So...what? You finally realize how much you like him?"

Fleur looked around the Ravenclaw table, making sure – making damn sure – no one Harry knew was around to eavesdrop. She leaned in and whispered, "Something like that."

Emilie squealed, actually squealed, and engulfed her in a massive hug. "You finally admitted it to yourself! Oh, this is so amazing – you'll be the cutest couple ever and I bet he's a great kisser and maybe even..." her friend grinned wickedly and whispered, "maybe an even greater lover."

Fleur groaned and dropped her head onto the table. "I did not need that possibility in my head right now, Emmy." she mumbled. "It's hard enough focusing on dragons as it is with my stupid brain wondering what his lips taste like or his hair feels like and you've gone quiet. Why have you gone quiet?"

Emilie said nothing.

"He's here, isn't he."

Silence.

Fleur sighed. "Wonderful."

Emilie patted her shoulder sympathetically. Fleur refused to look up until the distinctive sound of Harry's steps faded away. After a long couple of seconds her friend offered, "Don't beat yourself up about it too much. He looked really pleased. I think you made his day. Maybe even the whole week."

A heavy hand fell on her shoulders, the palm covering the span of her shoulder blades. She looked up into the grave face of Madame Maxime. The giant woman only nodded. Fleur returned the gesture and stood to follow her out. Out to face the dragon. Out to prove, once and for all, that she could do this.

The Championss tent should have been harder to break into, Harry thought. A seventeen year old with an invisibility cloak and a bum leg should not have been able to just...waltz in. But that, with Fleur's words echoing in his head, was exactly what he did. Lanterns hung from hooks on the tent poles, light filtering through aged glass to fill the tent's interior with a smoky white glow. Benches sat end-to-end against the canvas walls, all empty. Krum had posted up on the furthermost tent pole from the entrance, standing directly beneath a light with arms folded and face half-shrouded in shadow. Diggory was pacing in the center, looking slightly green, chewing on his thumb and muttering to himself. Ben sat on the ground with his back to a bench, legs drawn up and drawing listless circles in the packed earth with his finger. Fleur was standing with her back to him, head bowed and hips canted to one side as if deep in thought.

Knowing what was to come, he hoped she was. Harry let the cloak slide off him and pool at his feet. The Bulgarian's only reaction was a slight widening of the eyes, a reaction that on anyone else would be akin to screaming in surprise. Diggory didn't notice his presence for half a lap, doing a double take and tripping into a bench when he did. Fleur's head snapped up at the crash and she started to turn. Ben looked up and said, "Hey, Harry."

Her turn accelerated into a pirouette. She spun on her heel in a graceful motion that for some reason made his heart skip a beat. Her hair fanned out and her eyes flickered as she took in him and the pool of silver fabric at his feet. Then she smiled and folded her arms. "Have you ever used that and not broken a rule?"

Harry opened his mouth, but it was Ben who responded. "No. Though once we used it to prove our godfather had been framed for murder and unjustly imprisoned for a decade and a half. But that's more of a grey area."

Fleur blinked at Ben, then turned back to him. "Is that true?"

Harry sighed, rubbed his forehead, and mentally promised to beat Ben up later. "More or less."

She frowned. "But – "

"Look, it's a thrilling story, and if you two weren't about to go out and do battle with dragons, I'd tell you."

"Why are you here, Harry?" Ben asked from his position on the floor. Harry shot a warning look at him – another word, runt, and I give you back to Sirius – and took a step closer to them.

"Not that I think you need it," he wished his voice hadn't wavered when he said that, he really did, "but I came to wish you both luck, and..."

That emotion – like affection but deeper, hotter – flickered across Fleur's face before she stepped closer and lowered her voice. "What is it, Harry?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Coming here to wish his brother and her luck had been part of it, but he'd also come to tell her that she wasn't alone in wondering. Sometimes her hair flashed in the light during meals and he would find himself wondering whether it was as silky as it looked. Whenever they talked closely, as they were now, he would glance at her lips and wonder if they tasted sweet.

But looking at her, with three other sets of eyes on him – one of which belonging to his brother – he choked. "I just – I..." he sighed and glared at Diggory, who became very interested in a bench in the other direction. "What you said – in the Hall earlier..."

Fleur turned bright red but didn't step back or look away. "What of it?" her voice was quiet and rough.

All or nothing, Harry.

"You aren't alone in wondering," he rasped under his breath, watching her eyes widen and seeing surprise, pleasure, that same heat, again flash in their depths. "and – and maybe after this is over..." he trailed off.

"Yes." she said, and he thanked God for her perceptiveness. "Yes, I – I'd like that."

Harry grinned like an idiot. Over her shoulder, Ben gave him a double thumbs up and a wide, happy grin. Diggory was still studying the bench. Krum looked like he didn't care. And Fleur...she looked like Christmas morning.

And then a fat man walked in and ruined everything.

Ludo Bagman had the body of a powerfully built man; wide shoulders, thick forearms, a sense of general strength, and the potbelly of someone who had taken his physical prowess and gleefully watched it go away. He had a round, happy face that hinted at the genial nature hidden not-so-deep down. He was wearing a set of worn Quidditch robes with a wasp splashed messily across his expansive stomach. The normally ebullient man quailed – rightly so, Ben thought – in the face of Fleur's furious glare.

"Dear me – I – oh, bother!" he spluttered. Then beady blue eyes glittered with mischief, and a cat's grin stretched across his face. "I do hope I'm not...interrupting anything, am I? No declarations of young love in the moments before a life-or-death battle?"

Apart from the sincere hope the upcoming task wasn't as dangerous as the fat man made it out to be, Ben thought he'd nailed it pretty well on the head. Not that he'd say that, of course. Harry said nothing, his poker face far better than a player of Bagman's caliber can penetrate. Fleur, for whatever reason, did not have such a face and turned a wonderful shade of red.

"No, nozing like zat!" she assured, her accent thickening in a way that from the looks of him, his brother found very intriguing. If Ben were honest with himself, it worked a little for him, too. "He was just here to wish m – his brother luck, monsieur Bagman."

Ben hoped she'd never have to lie to save her life. She'd be killed for sure. Bagman tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. "Ahhh. I see. Nothing to see here, move on, that kind of thing?"

Fleur clearly had no idea what kind of thing he was on about. It wasn't her fault; from the looks of it, no one in the tent did. Fortunately they were spared the indignity of an explanation by the arrival of a man who looked almost exactly like the one who'd introduced Mr. Ollivander a few days back, only much older. And grumpier, from the frown permanently in place on his face.

"Ludo, the handlers tell me we're ready to go, what is the holdup?"

The older version of – what was his name? Crouch – took in the scene and if such a thing were possible, his frown grew. He took particular exception to Harry's presence, as they soon learned. "Unauthorized personnel are not allowed within the Champions' tent."

Harry got a look in his eye, and Ben groaned quietly. He knew that look. It was a look that spelled imminent trouble.

"But sir," his brother protested, false innocence in every syllable. "I am authorized."

Older Crouch was clearly having none of it. "On whose authority?"

This was a great distraction, Ben thought, from the great scaly beast he was about to become lunch for. Aand now he wasn't distracted anymore. Damn. On the upside, Harry was spared having to tell the most outrageous lie of his life by yet another person entering the tent, this one neither grumpy nor fat, but quite old.

"That would be mine," Professor Dumbledore said. "I gave Harry here permission to visit his brother before the task."

Old Crouch spluttered. "T- This is most unusual, Dumbledore!"

Ben felt the need to interject at this point. "My presence isn't unusual enough, sir? I'm the fourth competitor in a tournament meant for three, you know. I'm also a favored target of...well, you know who he is, and on top of that -"

Dumbledore raised his hand, smiling gently. "I think they get the point, Mister Potter. Now, Barty, if it will soothe your nerves, I'll ask that the elder Mister Potter join his friends in the stands. We do have a Tournament to be getting on with," he said the last to Harry, almost apologetic.

His brother nodded and turned back to Fleur. They held an entire conversation with their eyes – something he noted that he and Hermione also did with fair regularity – before Harry turned to leave. Ben couldn't resist a parting shot. Just as Harry passed through the tent, he called out, "See you later, lover boy!"

Grinning, he turned back to Bagman, who'd produced a small velvet bag from somewhere.

"Right!" The fat man said, "To business! Your task is to collect the golden egg!"

His grin faded. Collect an egg from a nest of other eggs, protected by a dragon. Sure. Why not?

I'm going to kill him. If the dragon doesn't kill him, then I shall.

Thoughts of fratricide lasted Harry to the footpath leading to the arena, where it was once again subsumed by waves of worry, anxiety, and fear. It was only through the disgrace of his upbringing that he was able to keep the emotions from his face.

The stands weren't precisely deep in the Forbidden Forest, but they were far enough for the distance between the dragon holding area and the arena to be manageable. It had the same structure as a football stadium; bleachers going in concentric ovals from a walkway set ten feet above the arena floor, which was itself sand, loose earth and boulders. For a second he was flabbergasted at the insanity of a wooden stadium, and then he smelled ozone and gave the entryway – where a human traffic jam had occurred – a closer look.

Runes.

Dozens and dozens of intricate, flowing loops and whorls that, if his admittedly limited understanding was to be believed, rendered this entire place safe against anything up to and maybe including a nuclear bomb. The jam cleared. Its source, squabbling quartet of girls Harry vaguely recognized, were finally moved by an impatient crowd. As they approached the walkway the crowd noise suddenly began. Maybe a ring of silence runes set into the outer walls?

The walkway groaned under the weight of the entirety of Hogwarts' students trying to get a good seat. The lower levels filled up quickly, and naturally or not the four houses soon delineated themselves amongst the bleachers. High up, spread out on the last oval, were a series of box seats that Harry assumed were saved for foreign dignitaries and people with lots and lots of money. Naturally, the Malfoys were up there somewhere.

He found his seat and tried to do something he had never been very good at: wait. That isn't to say he wasn't patient, but...he'd long learned that anything involving his little brother tended to throw rules of any sort out the window. So he sat with his turbulent, prickly emotions just under the surface of his skin and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. From everywhere at once came the sound of a throat clearing and a voice he'd heard not twenty minutes ago in the Champion's tent rang out over the arena. "Good day, good day, everyone! Welcome to the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament! Today, as a pledge of their strength and bravery in the face of an unknown and mysterious threat, our champions will face dragons!"

The crowd roared. It fell like rain on Harry's shoulders. Were they actually excited about what was to come, or just caught up in the energy of it all?

Bagman continued, "That's right, everybody; dragons! Keeping in mind that they've had no preparation or warning for what they would face today, their task is to the collect the golden egg from the nest. Points will be given based on style, speed, and execution of the retrieval and removed for sloppiness or ill execution of the same. Aand now! Put you hands together for our first champion!"

Harry's breath caught.

"Viiiiktor Kruuuuum!"

I should be more afraid, Ben thought as he stepped out into the sandy arena. Why am I not more afraid? It wasn't because he had a plan, because although he sort of did, now that he was here in the arena it didn't seem like a very good one.

Speaking of the arena...

It was massive. Easily the size of two rugby pitches sat end to end. The arena floor under his trainers was sand, scattered with rocks that ranged in size from small dog to sizable lorry. He looked up and around and saw the elevated stands with what seemed like every magical person in Britain staring down at him. Their mouths were moving, he could see that, but all he could hear was a sort of roar in his ears and the rasp of his breaths leaving him in pants.

He was afraid, he realized, but it was a mobile kind of fear. The kind that was fuel as opposed to the kind that chained. With this new-found realization it came to his attention that he was, in fact, scared shitless. A dry throat worked and he swallowed, enough for a magnified voice to reach his newly freed ears.

"...that spectacularly inventive showing by Mister Krum against the fearsome Ridgeback, let's see how our surprise – " and illegal, Ben added mentally. "– entrant fares against his foe. Ladies and gentlemen, if you would direct your attention to the far end of the arena, Mr. Potter's dragon will be revealed!"

Ben snickered. Then the grin slid off his face like water from a duck when the glamour at the other end of arena fell.

Big.

Really, really big.

Midnight black, it was, with demon jewel eyes the color of the sand and wickedly clawed feet. The wings held against its back were thin and membranous like a bat, and its tail was covered in jagged spikes. It roared at him, the rush of wind preceding the noise flapping his robes. In the depths of its maw he saw the flickering heat of an enraged star, ready to burst forth and destroy him at the first opportunity.

"The Hungariaaan Hoorrrrntaiiiilll!"

An opportunity Ben was not prepared to give it. He hissed air out through his nose and tightened his grip on his wand. Silence fell in the stands. Even the Horntail stood still. Then he took a single step forward, and it began.

"Ventus!" Ben howled, slashing his wand at the dragon and pelting towards the nearest, largest boulder. The spell kicked up a gale behind him, blowing the loose sand into a cloud that – hopefully – covered his movements. The dragon bellowed and an immense wave of heat hit his right side as the cloud twenty feet to his right turned into a storm of glass and fell to the ground. He ran blindly through his remaining cover, almost braining himself on the rock as it appeared but stopping himself with an outstretched hand in the nick of time.

"Okay," he panted, leaning against the warm stone. "step one; complete. Now for step two."

The next step called for a repeat of the same strategy until he could get close enough to let his – and he didn't mean to boast here – excellent reflexes come into play, but as the old saw went about plans...

Ben had half a second's warning before the world around him dissolved into fire. He dropped to the ground and curled in on himself, throwing his robes over every part of him he could make fit. The soles of his shoes heated as the boulder that saved his life heated to a cherry red. On and on the flames roared, Ben keeping a silent count until it ceased.

Thirty seconds, he thought, it can only breathe continuously for thirty seconds. He rose to his knees and tore the singed, tattered remnants of his robes off and tossed them aside. Underneath he was wearing the same formfitting bodysuit that he wore under his Quidditch pads. As to how long between blasts...we'll find out soon enough.

Making sure he kept his distance from the glowing boulder, he edged around to get a look at the Horntail. It crouched over something directly beneath it. It faced him, wings half-cocked and tail lashing the ground behind it. "Good show, Ben," he mumbled, "you've gone and made it angry." Inside its open maw he could see the fires building again.

"Ventus Fulmino!"

A lance of blue lightning leaped across the arena and scorched a line down the Horntail's flank. Ben didn't think he'd hurt it, but it yowled anyway.

"Great Scott!" someone was yelling. "Are you seeing what I am, ladies and gentlemen?! Is Mr. Potter actually attempting to fight his dragon?"

Well, he thought wryly, preparing for his next bad idea, subterfuge wasn't working, so...

Ben sprinted around the boulder. The Horntail's jaws widened, flame spilling from its jaws. He jabbed his wand at the gaping maw and roared, "Aguamenti! Maxima!"

The jet of water, hopefully dredged from a iceberg dotted fjord, spun around itself as it shot across the arena to impact in the dragon's open mouth. Ben pounded across the arena, hell bent for leather, directly at the dragon. More to the point, to the impressively large boulder about a dozen yards from the nest beneath it.

Halfway there Ben cut the spell, lowered his head, and poured on every ounce of speed he could find. A quarter of the way he felt the rush of hot wind and a bass rumble in his chest and knew, knew, that dragonfire was not far behind. He didn't dare look, if he looked he would stop and if he stopped he would die, so he ran, diving like an American baseball player into the sand to slide to safety behind the boulder just as once again his world was overtaken by flames.

This time, though, Ben had a bad idea. He ground his teeth, pointed his wand at the boulder, covered his eyes, and shouted again, "Aguamenti maxima!" A thunderous hiss filled the air and a pained moan escaped his lips as he did a better lobster impersonation than a human should be capable of.

Even though his skin felt like he'd been boiled and then attacked by a power sander, he stood. Utter silence fell in the arena, broken only by the gargantuan sound of the Horntail's breath and the drip drip drip of water from the cooling boulder. The steam spread out and up and he mustered the last vestiges of his courage, then stepped from around the boulder and towards the dragon.

This is a bad idea.

No, scratch that. This is the worst idea in the long, sad history of bad ideas.

As he approached the dragon Ben didn't dare breathe. His heart was pounding, his body scalded, he was rapidly approaching the limits of what magic he could conjure. He cast Silencio at his feet in the hopes it would muffle his steps and crept towards the dragon shaped outline in the fog.

The dragon's head whooshed over his own, searching for what was almost literally beneath its nose. Ben had to fight a hysterical cackle at that. He wound past the tree trunk thick legs and dodged the talons that gouged agitated furrows in the arena floor. Then he reached the nest.

It was more a cairn of heated stones than a nest. Nestled among the rocks were oblong objects the size of a rugby ball and made of a smooth, leathery material. Except one, that is. Taking a position of pride in the center stage of the nest was an egg made of gold. It was this he had come to find.

It was this he burnt his hands picking up.

...wizards.

The Horntail roared.

"Time's up." Ben muttered, and for what felt like the millionth time that day, ran for his life. He held the egg tightly under his arm, ignoring the pain spread out over his entire body, and ran, clearing the cloud of steam in short order and entering the open arena. The crowd went berserk; screaming and stomping and even firing spells into the air, bursting in the air like fireworks.

This only served to make the Horntail angrier. Ben kept running and didn't turn back, but he felt the heat of dragonfire and heard the surprised and frightened shouting of the crowds. The next thing he smelled – above the scorched scent of his own clothing – was ozone and figured he owed the crowd a thank-you letter for covering his escape. Directly ahead of him he saw a door open in the arena and Professor McGonagall waving madly at him.

He didn't stop running until he'd passed her and was well into the tent. Then he bent over and tried not to puke. As an endeavor, it wasn't...entirely successful.

Okay, fine. He threw up on himself. Luckily Madam Pomfrey was there to catch him before he fell over into a puddle of his own sick and guide him gently to a bed. Not far from, as it turned out, an equally tired and dirty looking Fleur. "Hi!" he said, as if he hadn't just thrown up on himself. "How's it going?"

Fleur shrugged tiredly as he boosted himself up into the bed and sort of just...sagged into the pillows. "I'm tired." she confessed. "I'm hungry, and I'm dirty. And I burnt my hands picking up this ridiculous egg!"

Ben nodded in commiseration, holding up his own scorched palms. "You'd think they knew that metal conducted heat."

"Actually," Madam Pomfrey interrupted, coming back with burn salve and various other medical accoutrements. "you'd think a quartet of champions – chosen for their ability and skill – would remember that they could in fact do magic and cool the egg off."

Fleur blinked. "A fair point."

Ben nodded. "Very fair. If it weren't for the huge dragon, you'd have been right, Madam Pomfrey. But! Huge dragons tend to focus the mind somewhat."

Pomfrey humphed and started smearing the paste into Ben's skin. Blessedly cool relief sank in and he sagged even further in. The pain gave way to a host of other aches that he dutifully pointed out to the nurse. After she was done treating his various maladies she informed him, "You've got some visitors, Mr. Potter and Ms. Delacour. Are you feeling up to seeing them?"

Ben nodded, figuring at least one was Hermione and that she'd want to reassure herself he was still alive. Next to him Fleur turned an interesting shade of pink that had nothing to do with burn by dragonfire. He grinned, the gesture widening as she nodded. Pomfrey made no mention of her blush – which she seemed grateful for – and headed over to let their visitors in.

Ron, Hermione, and Harry entered the tent. Ron looked pale. Really pale. Almost sickly. His eyes were wide and – were his hands shaking? He looked like it had finally sunk in. Ron had finally figured everything out and Ben was...just tired. He was tired of missing his friend, he was tired of being angry. So as they approached he tried on a weary smile and simply said, "Hey."

Ron's grin was cautious, and his return "Hey." was quiet. Before he or Ben could say anymore Hermione brushed past him. Her hands were twitching as if she wanted to touch him but wasn't sure if she could without hurting him and her face had nail marks in it. On her face was a combination of anger, relief, and vestiges of fear.

"You!" she squeaked. "You...infuriating boy! That was your plan? Run about and attack a dragon? What happened to our plan? You were going to summon your broom and try to outfly it!" Then tears filled her eyes and spilled over. She swiped at them and her voice turned thick. "Oh, I'm so glad you're okay."

Harry could have sworn he came in here with someone else. He was reasonably sure, somewhere in the back of his mind, that there were other people in the tent. In fact, if he concentrated, he'd probably be able to hear his brother's conversation not four feet away. However. That would require looking at, listening to, or thinking about someone other than Fleur. His mouth opened and he was sure that everything he was feeling would come spilling out; an idiotic tide of emotional declarations.

Instead, he said, "I told you so."

Her brow wrinkled. "You told me what?" The rasp in her voice – thicker than normal from the smoke and running about – did interesting things to his insides.

"That you could do it." He reminded, moving in and taking one of her hands in his own. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd turned it over to run his fingertips around the edges of the shiny burn on her palm. She shivered.

"Yes, you did." her voice was quiet and a small smile was turning up the corners of her lips. Since she didn't seem to mind his inspection of her hand overmuch, he kept doing it, feeling the smooth skin under the pads of his fingers and marveling at it. "I should have known better than to doubt you."

"Yes you should've." He scolded with mock severity. She licked her lips, drawing his eye. When had they drawn this close to each other? He didn't remember moving, and she was on a bed, so...

"About what I said," He blurted, "before."

Her eyes clouded, confused, before clearing and a shade of pink appeared in her cheeks. "We didn't exactly agree on what it was we'd be doing."

"No, we didn't." His voice had dropped to a rough murmur. He had a strange lump in his throat and a tightness in his chest. "Did you have anything in mind?"

Fleur had tilted her head forward, looking down and yet up at him at the same time. She licked her lips again and her head drifted towards his. "Maybe." she teased, and he felt her breath wash over him. "Did you?"

There was a lightness in his heart and a heaviness in his stomach, and both were subservient to a loud, insistent urge in him; kiss. Her. He turned his face down, their noses brushed, and just as his lips brushed against hers, someone cleared their throat. Loudly.

"I'm sorry, Ben."

Hermione had gone to pester Madam Pomfrey with questions about his condition, such as it wasn't. Ben knew he had some scuffs, an intense sunburn, burnt palms, and a sprained ankle. Which, to him, didn't seem that bad. To her, he had every single fatal disease in the entire history of ever and needed constant care.

"I know," he replied. Ron's expression didn't turn hopeful, but still carried that look of someone with something to say, so he waited.

"You're never going to forgive me, are you?"

Ben shrugged. "Probably not." He hated that there was a small, vicious part of him that took satisfaction in Ron's crumbling expression.

"I – "

"But." he cut Ron off. "I am willing to move past it. I'm tired of being angry at you, Ron. If you never do anything like this again, then maybe – maybe we could get back to where we were."

Ron was quiet for a minute. "I know I screwed up, ma- Ben, and I'll do everything I can to make up for it. You tell me to go fight a dragon, I'll fight a dragon. You tell me to fight Voldemort, I'll fight him."

"Leave fighting him to the professionals, Ron." Ben said with a tired smile, which was tentatively returned. "I just want my friend back. If you really feel like you need to do something, just...I don't know. Try not to fight with Hermione? She's been...she's done a lot for me recently."

"Is she...are...?" Ron asked. "Are you two...you know, together?"

Ben was saved having to answer what might have been the hardest question of his life by the girl in question's return. "I've just been talking with Madam Pomfrey," she said, rather unnecessarily, "and she said that you're not to do anything overtly physical or magical for the next few days as you recover and – what'd I miss?"

He sighed. Should have known better. Hermione was much too smart of a person to miss this new tension between him and Ron. Who, surprisingly, stepped up. "I asked if you two were together."

"Oh!" Hermione turned bright red. Redder than Ben at his most parboiled. "Oh! Uh, well..."

Behind them, at the entrance to the tent, someone cleared their throat. Loudly.

Fleur decided that, for the betterment of mankind and her sanity, Ludo Bagman had to die. This was the second – second time he'd interrupted her and Harry, and this time...he had been about to kiss her. She'd felt something, like a small, warm flame flowing from his lips to hers in that brief moment of contact. It flowed through her cheeks and down her neck, bringing a heat to her body she hadn't felt before. It was new and intoxicating and the oblivious fat man had strolled in and ruined it!

Harry sighed, his breath brushing against her skin. She drank in the feeling and rubbed her nose against his as he pulled away. "We will be continuing this." she whispered to him. He nodded and grinned before turning around and stepping away. She missed the warmth of his body almost immediately.

Across the tent, the hated fat man was grinning and looking generally as if he'd won the lottery. Her glare put paid to that look soon enough. Professor Dumbledore looked genial and old as usual, though she thought she spotted an undercurrent of pride as he looked at her, Harry, and Ben. Madame Maxime's face cycled through disapproval, sternness, before settling on acceptance and pride. Karkaroff just looked upset, though at what she had no idea. Behind them all stood the thin man, Crouch, whose scowl was still firmly in place.

"If we're not interrupting," Bagman shot a hesitant glance at Fleur, who ignored him. "the judges are prepared to give the champions their scores. If we could proceed into the arena? I'm sure the dragons have been returned to their enclosure by now."

No one laughed at his joke. He didn't seem surprised. Once out in the arena it took Fleur a minute to realize that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had stayed behind. It did make sense, they weren't officially involved in the tournament, but...she wanted him to be there with her anyway. Next to her, Bagman muttered, "Sonorous."

"Ladies and gentlemen! The judges have come up with their verdict and are now ready to deliver their scores! But first! Give a loud and heartfelt cheer for our champions!"

The audience went berserk; stamping their feet and applauding and even shooting sparks into the air from their wands. After letting it drag on for a respectable few minutes, Bagman continued.

"Our first champion, Viktor Krum, facing the fearsomely massive Albanian Ridgeback, performed admirably! The judges have awarded him forty five points, with a five point subtraction for his well-cast Conjunctivitus curse that caused a rampage and led to squashed dragon eggs. Give it up for Mr. Krum!"

The audience, and the Durmstrang students in particular, raised an impressive amount of noise for their champion. Krum, for his part, just nodded and remained stoic.

"Our second champion, Cedric Diggory, up against the wicked and terrible Eurasian Longtooth, gave a valiant effort! He used Transfiguration and Charms to great effect, but was rather badly burned effecting his escape. For this, he has been awarded thirty six points! A round of applause for Mr. Diggory!"

Hogwarts cheered and booed in equal measure. Protesting his point subtraction, she supposed. Everyone else gave polite applause. Diggory, still weak and a little woozy, managed a tired smile and wave that drove the cheers to new heights.

"Our third and only female champion, Fleur Delacour, faced the Peruvian Venomclaw; a cunning and venomous beast from the steamy jungles of South America! For her performance, particularly her unique and cunning use of potions and spells, she is awarded forty. Eight. Points!"

The Beauxbatons students needed no prompting. They exploded, making enough noise to cause Fleur to wince even as her grin threatened to split her face in two. She blushed hard and waved.

"Yes, yes! Well done, Ms. Delacour! And now! We come to the surprise – " and illegal, Fleur added mentally. "– entrant of our tournament. Mr. Benjamin Potter faced the cruel and vicious Hungarian Horntail, facing his opponent head on with a breathtaking use of trickery and open combat! Despite his bravery and valiance, the crowd came under risk during his escape from the arena. For his efforts, the judges have awarded him forty three points! Give it up for Mr. Potter!"

The applause rang in her ears and Fleur felt herself sag in relief. But Bagman wasn't finished.

"The Second Task will take place three months hence, the details of which will be released as the day grows closer. Now! One last round of applause for our champions!"

Harry's fists uncurled as Ben and Fleur made their way back towards the tent. Yes, he knew objectively that they weren't entirely out of danger, that there was still two tasks to go, but he couldn't stop the relief flooding into him. They were safe now, and that was all that mattered. Fleur's smile latched onto him and refused to let go until he returned it. He was more than happy to.

Even though it took titanic effort, he tore his gaze away to grin proudly at Ben, who waved and gave him a thumbs up before gesturing to Fleur and mouthing, You're in, there. A rush of heat to his ears followed that and Harry reminded himself that fratricide was still, unfortunately, frowned upon. The champions as a whole looked tired and as he met them at the tent, most could manage nothing more than a grunt or weak smile.

However.

Soon he was left alone with Fleur, who had a decidedly predatory look in her eye. "I believe," she stated, "we were interrupted, before."

He swallowed past a suddenly dry throat. "We were."

"I don't know about you," she was almost purring at him now, "but I would very much like to finish what we started. Am I alone?"

"Far from it." he murmured, and reached for her. She came willingly, eagerly, curling her arms around his neck and lifting her lips to his. And then...

Then there was a sound – a sound like a massive chain snapping, followed by a furious, triumphant roar. His mind raced, putting two and two together and coming up with oh, shit.

A dragon was on the loose.

Note: Dragons and shipping and running about oh my! Holy crap, has it really been a month since I updated this? It's not a dead fic, if you're curious. In fact, I won't abandon a fic. Even I wanted to, I can't leave a story unfinished. Whenever I try to write something else it just feels...weird, like trying to have a conversation in a language you don't know, or something.

Anyway.

The point, is that even though it may be as much as a month between updates, none of my fics will ever be abandoned barring my sudden and violent loss of the following:

Sight.

Hands.

Life.

Barring that, I'm still chugging along. All I ask is you bear with me and keep reading. Oh, and enjoying. And reviewing, I guess. If you must.

P.S. If you really, really, really want to be angry at someone for there being so long between posts, blame my beta. And me. And Burt Reynolds, because invariably it's somehow his fault.

GV out.