Viviane
The Day After
Despite the excitement of the Ball on Christmas Day that had carried over until early the next morning, Harry found himself awake well before the rest of the tower on Boxing Day. He had a lot of things he needed to get done, and he figured it was better to get going with it before the whole school caught on to Harry's rather novel if unintended method of disarming Malfoy. He suspected Snape for one would be looking for ways to give him detention from now until the end of seventh year.
First things first, he had walked up to the owlry, enjoying the sunrise coming up over the snow-dusted canopy of the Forbidden Forest and glittering off the icy surface of the lake as he handed a hastily scrawled letter to Hedwig, asking her if she was up for a quick trip to Lavender's – hopefully the letter would arrive as a nice surprise when Lavender arrived back home later today, Harry's messy scrawl promising her a queen's ransom of whatever she wanted from Honeydukes.
As he came back across the south bridge, he spotted smoke already coming from Hagrid's hut and the not-so-small speck of Hagrid himself, already moving around the sprawling gardens that surrounded the gamekeeper's lodgings. After a moment of indecision, Harry turned around and took the stairs that would most quickly take him down to Hagrid – for all Hagrid's declarations that Harry was innocent of the whole 'dragon misunderstanding', the large man and Harry's oldest friend had definitely been, if not chilly, then at least somewhat distant over the past few weeks. Maybe Christmas spirits would put that to rest.
Plus, Harry admitted to himself somewhat guiltily, Hagrid was the only one who had actually told him about the dragons, and if Harry now had to face another creature, maybe Hagrid would come around to telling him about that one too, in case he couldn't figure it out from the egg (hopefully) later this morning.
"Hello, Hagrid," Harry called out when he approached, earning him a lazy growl from Fang who was curled in front of Hagrid's door.
"Ah, 'Ello!" Hagrid rumbled merrily and glanced over his shoulder, a giant handful of chicken feed falling from his hands around him as he did so, starting a chorus of clucking from the dozen hens nearby. "'Ad yaself a good time last night, eh? Seem like yer was havin a good time with that lass a' yours."
"It was fun," Harry agreed, ignoring the not unpleasant flipflop in his stomach. "I hope you did too – I had no idea Madame Maxine was that er, agile,"
Hagrid let out a booming laugh. "All in the hips, is what it is. Once ya handled the sorta beasts I 'ave, a woman on the dance floor ain't too difficu- best I don't put it quite that way, but ah..."
"I won't say anything, I know what you meant," Harry replied quickly, though not able to stop a cheeky grin from coming over his face as Hagrid turned red, visible even from beneath his bushy beard.
"Ah well, make yaself useful and hand me that ruddy can, if ya don't mind – there's a good lad." He finished as Harry picked up a rusting watering can – and immediately had his legs threaten to buckle out from beneath him.
"Ta," Hagrid said, taking it from a staggering Harry. "S'bit bigger inside than out," Hagrid admitted belatedly. "But saves me trips filling the thing dunnit?" With an almost comical daintiness, Hagrid began to pour the contents – which were not only more filling than they looked, but extremely hot – a great gout of steam coming from the spout – over a string of tall beanpoles. The vines along rapidly tripled in thickness, and began to shake happily.
"There they go," Hagrid said cheerily. "In a right mood they are, over tha cold snap." Hagrid gave the vines an affectionate pat, and they began to purr as he went down the line again with the steaming watering can. "Mind ya, can' hardly blame em, this time a year wouldn't be tryin' to grow em at all, except they're a delicacy to the right kind, ain't they. Part of the deal to get 'em to participate in the second ta-"
Hagrid clammed up. Harry tried not to look to eager.
"A delicacy? That's very interesting... delicacy for who?"
Hagrid shook his head, his beard swaying to and fro. "Can't say nothin' about that, I'm afraid," Hagrid replied after a moment, looking a bit bashful. "I'm a professor too, gotta play by the same rules. Sometimes I ferget that." He finished with an awkward chuckle.
Harry couldn't help but wonder how much of that was actually because Hagrid did occasionally forget he wasn't just the gamekeeper anymore, and how much because he secretly thought Harry was a murderer of cute and fluffy bunnies and puppies and dragons.
Harry's stomach flipflopped in a much less pleasant way than before.
"I don't think the second task will be quite so, ah, drastic," Harry tried again.
"Nah, shouldn' be," Hagrid agreed, though his eyes were completely focused on his work now, as he tied the brand new shoots to the poles with a thick brown twine, fingers thicker than Harry's wrists somehow making small, tight knots one after another. Hagrid's boots shuffled guiltily in the snow when he turned back to Harry. "I know yer a good lad, 'Harry. Don' take it like I don'. Just really can't say nothin' is all."
"It's alright," Harry said, keeping disappointment out his voice. And it really was. If Hagrid didn't want to help him right now, then given the circumstances Harry wouldn't hold it against him. Especially if this task really wasn't a life-and-death thing, though admittedly Hagrid's bar of where that was wasn't always the most objective standard.
"I better get back to the castle," Harry replied after another moment, before Hagrid made him feel guilty again or even worse, invited him into his hut for breakfast. "I'll see you later."
As Harry was turning around, Hagrid called out. "Just don' go jumpin' to any conclusions about 'em, and keep ya hands where they can see 'em. Shouldn't be no trouble at all. Right friendly folk, really."
One word stuck out in all of that.
"Them," Harry replied, voice rather louder than intended.
Hagrid didn't seem to pick up on the import, and only nodded.
"Tha's right. Like I said, right friendly." He paused, then nodded as if satisfied he had threaded the needle between helping Harry and following the rules. "Right then, 'Harry, off ya trot. Said moren' I shoulda, to be frank. But your a good lad."
"Right," Harry acknowledged, feeling slightly faint, returning to the castle in a much gloomier mood than he'd left it.
Them. From the way Krum had spoken last night, Harry had assumed that the second task would be a repeat of the first, just with a different creature to ki- to retrieve an object from. The other champions had all been in agreement that Harry wouldn't need to kill anything, or at least that's what he'd taken their reactions to Romilda's declaration to mean. Still – them. Maybe the others only knew what the creature was, and no idea that there were plural of them. Maybe that was the whole gimmick of this task, even.
Harry needed to talk to the Hat. Just to be on the safe side.
His stomach grumbled. After breakfast.
Students were slow to filter into the Great Hall – some wouldn't even bother, those going home perhaps choosing to take an extra hour of sleep or just lounging with their friends before flooing home. Harry was alone in his corner of the Gryffindor table for a few minutes. He ate a piece of toast and began preparing a second one.
"Hello, Harry," Romilda chirped as she sat down across from him, just as Harry was buttering it. "Oh, blueberry jam today. Lovely."
"Here you go," Harry said, handing her his freshly prepared piece and starting on another, hands working automatically. Whatever else the Dursleys may have been, they had made him a quick and tidy preparer of breakfast foods.
"None of your friends coming down, then?" He asked
"Oh, you're the best!" She exclaimed while taking a bite. "No, they're all a bunch of lazy bones – and they didn't even attend the ball!" Harry looked her up and down – she was thrumming with energy this morning.
"Expecting a secret post Christmas present?" Harry asked with a grin.
She smiled. "Even better, the Daily Prophet. They took so many pictures of us last night, there's no way we aren't in it!"
Hopefully, they were in it for being Champions at the dance, and not for the grand finale of behanding the son of the Prophet's leading benefactor. Time would soon tell, Harry supposed.
"Were Ron or Hermione up by the time you left," he followed up on his original inquiry about her friends.
Romilda shook her head. "Nope," she popped, then took another bite of toast. "Do you prefer Blueberry?"
"Raspberry," Harry replied absently, eyes darting to the entrance to the hall, as if expecting his friends to materialize there by sheer willpower. "I was thinking of testing the Egg around ten," Harry turned back to look at Romilda. "You know, let everyone clear out a bit." He lowered his voice, leaning in toward her. "I spoke to Hagrid just before breakfast and he wouldn't tell me much, but he did suggest that there were lots of them, whatever they are, not just one like the dragon."
Romilda took another bite. Harry's gaze flickered to her lips, where her tongue wiped away a stray speck of blueberry jam. Her lips formed into a toothy smile.
"Well, that's unfortunate for whatever vicious beasts you are facing, because no matter how many swarms the forces of darkness send after you, you will butcher them in carpet-load lots! The beasts will sing their dreadful mourning songs about this tournament for a thousand years!"
"Hagrid seemed fairly certain that I shouldn't – er, wouldn't – need to do that."
Romilda shrugged, taking a small sip of her drink. "Either way." She looked at her goblet. "Maybe we could try poison? We still have time, we could learn to brew one."
Harry doubted Hagrid would see that as an acceptable loophole around the 'no poison by stabbing with a legendary sword' recommendation. And while the student body had seen his approach to the dragon as the common-sense one, they might get a little queasy if a pattern started to emerge, especially if the other Champions didn't ever need to resort to the same.
Harry's thoughts on the merits of mass-murder were put on hold as the daily flock of owls descended onto the eating students. A series of thump-thump-thumps rang out as the birds landed or simply discharged their cargo before flying back out of the hall.
Romilda squealed in glee. Right across the front of the Daily Prophet was a giant picture of the Champions' opening waltz. The four couples danced in a circle such that each had their turn at the front and center, although Harry noted with amusement that photo-Fleur was as quick to take that position as she was slow to abandon it. Presumably there were some additional embellishments and charms within the paper – Harry would have remembered dipping Romilda, let alone with that much flair. Photo-Romilda winked at him.
"Oh this is wonderful. I love it so much!"
A few minutes later though, titters began to crop up throughout the hall, definitely coming from those students that had received copies of the Prophet with their morning post.
"Romilda, could I have a look," Harry asked, where Romilda was still watching the picture as she finished her toast.
"Mm, oh yes – but please, be careful! Don't get it mucky!" She handed the paper to him delicately. Harry's eyes though did not look at the picture but went to the accompanying article. The Headline: Hogwarts Hosts Yule Ball in Style! wasn't so bad. His eyes scanned the article, glazing over the bit he already knew about TriWizard Traditions, the foreign dignitaries blah blah blah...
Three paragraphs down, in bold print.
Dragon Slaying Hero or Dark Lord Diva?
His fists clenched, causing Romilda to yelp. "Don't wrinkle it!" But Harry was reading now, and getting increasingly furious.
… of course, of particular interest to our readers is the inclusion of a fourth wizard in a Triwizard affair; and Dear Reader, I use the word 'affair' advisedly. Mr. Harry Potter was seen taking the young Miss Vane, daughter of Horatio Vane and the infamous Brunhilde Hansen, to the Yule Ball, prompting a number of concerned onlookers to express concern about Potions of dubious repute, although who is after whom is the question none could agree on.
"I thought it was very strange that Potter couldn't get a date with a single girl in our year," Miss Parkinson, a peer of Mr. Potter's, reached out to us, concern for the younger girl and her possible vulnerability to an older bad boy clear in every word she spoke. "Potter has been brewing all sorts of surprises this year – I just hope we're all safe in the castle. Ever since that poor dragon, I just don't know."
Others however were quick to express their concern for Mr. Potter, who may be victim of a sordid love pentagram. Afterall, it's now no secret that a fellow competitor ended up taking Potter's former closest confidante, perhaps leaving Mr. Potter to the very wiles he may be subjected to.
"They were always inseparable," Theodore Nott, another fourth year student and considered by many to have been a strong shot for Hogwarts Champion if not for Headmaster Dumbledore's last minute decision to institute an age-line (a line that somehow did not stop Mr. Potter's impossible entrance). "But things have been really weird this year – I've never been particularly close to Potter, but I am worried about him and what he may have got himself into. He was raised by muggles, and given who his friends are he probably doesn't know half of what he ought to." Readers will remember that Mr. Nott's grandfather, Cantankerous Nott-
Well, that was enough of that handed the paper back to Romilda.
"If you want to keep the picture, you ought to cut it out, the rest of the paper isn't worth keeping," Harry said at last, keeping his voice calm some effort. A sour feeling rose in his throat – this sort of 'publicity' could poison what was becoming a rather promising friendship.
"Oh, I never read if I can help it," Romilda replied airily. She went back to studying the picture. She frowned. "Fleur thinks very highly of herself, doesn't she?" She replied sourly, nose wrinkling at the image of the French Champion that had not-so-gently pushed Cho and Cedric out of the center frame. Does your photograph have its wand, Harry? You could banish her if it did! That would be wonderful, wouldn't it?"
"It doesn't bother you, what they print?" Harry asked, feeling a bit like he was handling a hatching dragon egg.
"Oh, I'm sure it's horrible," Romilda replied cheerfully. "One day, after you defeat Rita, will you put me in charge of the Prophet? Please!?"
Harry wasn't sure "Local Second Coming of Merlin, to delight of all citizens of stout hearts and pure minds, slaughters horrid reporter," was the sort of change in the press he really wanted, but it did get a small laugh out of him.
"I'll take that as a yes," Romilda cheered, though still not looking up from the picture. She did apparently look at the article though, because her voice went well past mischievous and straight to diabolical the next time she spoke.
"Harry, I think the Slytherins have just found out what happened to Malfoy," she said, voice sounding positively giddy.
Harry looked up, confused by the apparent non-sequitur.
She jerked her head towards their table. "Have a look."
Harry turned. The laughter at the Slytherin table had ceased completely. In fact, the students there all looked quite ill, several of them rapidly turning away when Harry turned around. A third year girl flinched. In the center, as conspicuous as a missing hand, was Malfoy's spot. Which again – given the day – might not have mattered. But framing it were Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson, both looking as pale as if they'd seen a ghost. A ghost that hadn't wanted to be seen, at any rate.
Harry waved. Pansy fell gracelessly into her seat.
"Well... that is interesting," Harry replied after a moment. Part of him didn't want to gloat too much about what had happened, but Malfoy had fully intended for it to be his hand that had been left in a bloody ruin, so a bit of vindictive cheer wasn't too unfair, in Harry's opinion. And if it shut the likes of Parkinson and Nott up, so much the better.
"I need to go talk to the Sorting Hat," Harry reminded himself a moment later, getting up to go. "Will you be alright?"
"Hmm? Oh yes," Romilda turned the page of the Prophet and gestured towards the entrance, where a pair of Gryffindor girls were finally arriving. "Emily and Catherine are here – I want a word with them anyway before they head off, and I want to show this" - Romilda shook the paper above her head like a trophy –to Astoria before she skulks off! Go on, Harry – I'll meet you all at ten."
"I will of course allow you to borrow the hat once more, but if I might give you a few words of advice from an old man to a young one to go with it?" Dumbledore said from across his desk, his face looking quite wrinkled and somber as he looked at Harry.
Harry nodded.
Dumbledore held up one finger. "First, the sword is not yours, Harry, and it will not come for you without cause," Dumbledore said, frowning slightly. "I think that is a lesson you have forgotten, and it is my hope that you will relearn it."
Now Harry frowned. "You don't think the sword will assist me in the second task?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "No, I think that you will realize that it is not needed for the task at hand, but more importantly I hope you will find it within yourself to not desire its assistance." Dumbledore leaned forward. "Are you even aware of what you are up against in the next task, if you don't mind me asking?"
Harry felt his face heat. "Well no, not entirely yet." He lifted his head defiantly. "But I do know that it's a them, and I know that someone put me in this tournament to kill me, and has come pretty close at least once!"
Dumbledore sighed. "Let me assure you, the next task does not entail anything or anyone that needs to be killed, and you would be well equipped to think down a different line of strategy. Hopefully the Hat will be able to convince you of that much if I cannot." A pause. "Do you know why I only gave you four points, Harry?"
Harry shook his head, feeling a twinge of guilt.
"Something I hope you will think about," Dumbledore replied. Another pause.
"There is also the matter of last night."
Harry blinked. "What, Malfoy?" Harry asked, shrinking in a bit at the Headmaster's clear disappointment at his admittedly glib question. "I didn't mean to cut off his hand – and technically, I mean, I didn't."
Dumbledore nodded. "I am aware. Professor Moody was quite clear about the chain of events. What troubles me is that you have come to me not even a day after witnessing a fellow student lose a hand, to ask once more for a sword against a perceived foe you have not yet worked out its name."
Harry gave an awkward shrug. Dumbledore leaned back into his seat.
"Don't let this tournament consume you, Harry. I assure you I am hard at work behind the scenes to untangle this plot, and there is nothing that matters more to me than to see you come out this year alive and unscathed. After the fine young man I have had the pleasure to watch grow over the past three years, whether or not you are named Champion matters not at all."
"But, that is not what you are after right now, and perhaps that is part of the journey that you must undertake for yourself." The Headmaster waved his wand and the Sorting Hat once more floated down between them. "More than anything, I hope what you find inside is what you need."
The portrait of Phineas Black hid a scoff behind a cough.
Unsure what to say to that, and certainly with no desire to speak to Sirius's rude ancestor, Harry thanked the Headmaster, picked up the Hat, and left the office.
Hermione and Ron in the meantime had somehow had a fight of unprecedented proportions. Harry's attempts the night before to shake Ron may have spared Parvati from a wholly terrible night, but apparently all he had managed to do was put a lid on that particular cauldron, and in the end it had bubbled over. Harry came back into the Common Room on the tail-end of a terrible screaming match right in the center of the room, mercifully empty of all but the last stragglers but clearly, any sort of camaraderie regarding the golden egg was not going to happen today, no matter how pressing time was becoming. It had culminated in Lavender of all people reading Ron a second riot act for no obvious reason, before she stormed out of the room to floo home. Harry hoped she wouldn't burn his letter when she saw it, but decided this was not the time to call out to her.
In the end, he had met Romilda at ten on the third floor all, alone. She looked a little ill.
"Are you okay?" He asked at once, wondering if he should just call off today as a botched job. Hagrid, Dumbledore, Ron, Hermione, not to mention The Prophet, it just wasn't his day. He hoped Hedwig hadn't been waylaid by his bad luck on the way to Lavender's home.
"No, I'm fine," she gave him a shaky smile. "It's just... well, I trust you of course, but what if we get caught!" She finished with a nervous squeak.
Harry belatedly realized what exactly it might look like, all things considered. His ears went red.
"I'm sorry – I didn't really think about that. Umm..." His mind rushed through what he ought to say. "You ah, you know, I'm decent under my robe," Harry finally got out. Not that he particularly wanted Romilda to see him in his hand-me-down shirt and Dudley's old jeans, but he hadn't exactly come to Hogwarts planning on a swim, although given everything else that had happened, he supposed he should have. It was only sheer dumb luck he hadn't ended up having to fight the Giant Squid at some point, yet. His mind froze at that – hopefully the Squid wasn't what he had to fight. He didn't reckon the students would be as supportive of him killing the friendly squid as they had the dragon. Thankfully, there was only one squid, so that probably wasn't it.
"Well, yes," Romilda interrupted his thoughts. "But what if anyone sees us!?"
Ah. Ohhhhhhh. Well yes, that could be a mite awkward.
"Go on ahead," Harry said after a moment, wracking his brain and coming to a decision. "I've got to get something really quick." A pause. "Trust me."
Romilda nodded quickly. "Always."
Harry went ran back up to Gryffindor Tower, up to the fourth year boys dormitory and to his trunk. He quickly found what he was looking for, and raced back the way he had come, invisibility cloak under his robes.
When he arrived, Romilda was already inside, sitting along the side with her feet in the water, and wearing a swimsuit that more closely resembled a dress than anything he had seen before, and covered her from neck to knees. With more self-consciousness than Dudley's old clothes could be given full credit for, Harry took the egg out his pocket and then shed his outer robe, and then quickly jumped into the waist deep water, holding the golden egg aloft. It was perfect of course, just hot enough to feel it in his bones, and his thoughts jumped to how easy it would be to sneak in here whenever he liked, between the cloak and the map. Speaking of which -
"I, er, have an invisibility cloak," Harry explained, gesturing to the unseen bundle inside his discarded robe. "We can use it to get out of here without being seen."
"A cloak of death!" Romilda exclaimed. Harry took a slight step back in the pool. Romilda moved towards his robes, rumbled on the grey stone floor. "May I?" She asked, now kneeling down. Harry nodded. "Yeh, I suppose."
Romilda unfolded his robe with an almost reverence, and then picked up the cloak, allowing the glistening cloth to flow through her fingers, pooling at her feet.
"The Cloak of Death," Romilda repeated again with an awed whisper. "The Greatest of the Hallows. Nobody can doubt your right to claim your place in the pantheon of heroes now!"
"It isn't a Peverell's," Harry clarified. "It was my dad's. It's uh... demiguise? I think that's what Ron said."
Romilda pouted. Curiously, she folded it over her hands, then let out a squeak and fell backwards on her bottom when they disappeared.
"We will discuss this later," she said primly, patting down her suit and returning to the edge of the pool.
"You can't tell anyone, please."
She nodded quickly. "Never Harry, I swear, not even a the most evil Warlocke could tear your secrets from my heart!"
That would do, he supposed.
"Right, well, shall we find out what this is all about?" Harry asked. "Or else Cedric is going to think I'm really thick."
Romilda pushed away from the side of the pool, half gliding, half walking next to him.
"I should have the sword right now," she said with a playful smile.
Harry's look of confusion gave him away and she gave him a slightly embarrassed grin. "Viviane is the Lady of the Lake. Well, one of her names... I like it the most, it's so close to mine!"
"Ah!" Harry said, connecting the dots. "Shouldn't I be Arthur then?"
Romilda shook her head. "No, that's just the muggle version. Viviane gives the sword to Merlin. He defeats the muggle armies and then hides Avalon away so the muggles can't follow. It's where the idea of the Statute of Secrecy even comes from."
Harry nodded. "Is that why you refer to me as Merlin?" He asked, laughter in his tone. "Cause we're friends, too?"
She gave a short jerk of her head, turning pink as she did so. "Yes. Although defeating a menagerie of magical monsters in the most amazing ways might have something to do with it to."
"Right, so let's figure out what's next," Harry cut the tension in a way he hoped sounded breezy, and taking a deep breath, dove under the water, plunging the egg and undoing its clasp as he did so.
The egg did not wail, but began to sing the most beautiful song Harry had ever heard.
Harry had to remind himself to come up for air after the second time the song finished, his lungs burning, small hands pulling on his shirt and bringing him back up to the surface. He gasped, wiping water out his eyes and staring uncomfortably close to a very pale Romilda, her dark hair dripping around her face making her look all the more like a ghost.
"Mermen," she whispered, uttering the word like a curse. "You have to kill mermen."
Harry took another breath. Other than the fact that apparently even the bloody clue was out to kill him, that didn't seem very likely. Lupin had covered Mermen briefly last year, but unlike Red Caps or Grindylows or Wills-o'-the-Wisps, he'd had little to say about needing to ever fight them; they lived under the water, they were extremely fond of forged metal which they could not make for themselves, and as long as the wizards and witches of third year defense were respectful if they ever found themselves face-to-face with one, they had been assured they would be fine. They had been included more for completions sake than any real need, and Lupin hadn't even mentioned them during his final examinations.
"Is that so bad?" Harry asked, half dreading where Romilda was going to take this, but also admittedly willing to consider the views of someone who had grown up around magic and didn't consider cerberi or dragons to be candidates for household pet.
"The worst." Romilda wailed. "Merman haunt the waters, seeking fair maidens with melodious songs in their hearts and on their lips and then steal them! Their women are even worse, they are not content with stealing songs, but will steal her face, to ensnare princes along the shore! Oh, they're terrible."
Her eyes widened and she seemed to choke for a moment. "I'm in the choir! Flitwick says I could even have a solo next year if I apply myself." She grasped dramatically at her throat. "Promise me you'll kill any merman who tries to steal my songs!"
"I'll stop them, if it comes to that," Harry reassured her, erring on a more general word that didn't necessarily require killing of any kind.
"You have to stab them in the throat with their own trident, it's the source of their depraved and perfidious powers," Romilda added helpfully.
Harry nodded, but stayed silent. He also questioned the earnestness of Romilda's earlier declaration of avoiding reading. Rather unsettlingly, he suspected if he stole some of his aunt's books that she kept hidden where Vernon wouldn't see them, Romilda would lap them up.
"At least it isn't Harpies or Sirens." Romilda added, almost more to herself than to Harry. Her face hardened. "If a Siren came after you, I'll kill it myself," her hands – small and dainty and fingernails painted a very vibrant shade of pink – clenched.
"Thanks." Harry replied, more for having something to say. "Shall – well, I suppose we're finished here. And I better try and see what I can do about patching things up between Hermione and Ron," he finished, a little disappointed to be leaving so soon.
"I suppose," Romilda agreed, sounding just as glum. Then, she brightened. "But first, we're going to roam the castle hidden from the very gaze of death, in the silken embrace of immortality!"
Harry cast drying charms on them, and huddled under the invisibility cloak, Harry's mind wandered to how he would retrieve his Firebolt from the Merman without killing any of them. Maybe he could summon some of Hagrid's vines and offer a trade.
As they passed the bickering trip of gargoyles on the fourth floor, Romilda stumbled and she tightened her grip on him to prevent herself from falling out of the cloak entirely. Other thoughts chose that moment to cross his mind, like how enjoyable dancing with her the day before had been.
"Do you wanna go to the library for a bit," Harry whispered. Romilda looked up at him. "You know, we could um...look up ways to kill things underwater, in case the sword doesn't work out," he ventured, admitting to himself that he was absolutely barmy. "I can deal with Ron and Hermione after that. No real rush."
"That sounds fantastic," Romilda all but blurted. "Let's go!"