Authors note: Whoa, time travel, all of a sudden we've skipped like 5 chapters. How did that happen?

The lead-up to the second task of the Triwizard Tournament was a blur of nervous energy and frantic preparation. Ever since Harry had cracked the clue from the golden egg, he had known what was coming: a rescue mission deep beneath the Black Lake. The task itself was terrifying, but the real dread came from the fact that he had nothing—no spell, no potion, no plan to actually breathe underwater. Days had slipped by faster than he could prepare, and now he stood on the shore of the lake, the bitter February wind biting through his robes, feeling utterly unprepared.

The other champions weren't faring much better. Fleur Delacour stood a little way off, her silvery-blonde hair tied back tightly, but the usual grace and poise she carried seemed dimmed. She was speaking quietly with Madame Maxime, her brow furrowed in concern. Beside them was Ivan Kolyo, the new Durmstrang champion, a broad-shouldered, grim-looking wizard who had been chosen after Viktor Krum's tragic death following the first task. His face was pale, and there was a haunted look in his eyes that made Harry wonder whether he, too, had seen more than he had bargained for.

The atmosphere around them was tense. The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang contingents weren't cheering or buzzing with excitement as they had before. They seemed subdued, their faces pale against the grey sky. It didn't help that the Hogwarts crowd, by contrast, was positively electric. The stands were packed, and students were waving banners and flags, the Gryffindor lions roaring in the cold wind. The festive atmosphere clashed starkly with the reality of what they were about to do—dive into the freezing Black Lake and rescue people they cared about from the depths below.

Harry swallowed hard, trying to stay focused. Free the hostage. Get out of the lake. He repeated the mantra over and over in his head, willing himself to keep it together. His heart was pounding, and the cold was already starting to seep into his bones.

As the seconds ticked closer to the task, Ludo Bagman approached Harry, his usual boisterous grin faltering slightly. "All set, Harry, my boy?" he asked, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "Big moment, this. Second task. Quite the spectacle."

Harry nodded, though the tight knot in his stomach only twisted further. "Yeah... about as ready as I'll ever be."

Bagman glanced around quickly, his eyes darting to make sure no one else was listening, then leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, if you're in need of a bit of advice, I've got a few tricks up my sleeve. Help a lad out, eh? Wouldn't want to go in blind, would we?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard. Part of him wanted to say yes, to take the help Bagman was offering—he'd been going in circles for days, trying to figure out how he was supposed to breathe underwater, and now there was no time left. But another part of him recoiled. There was something about Bagman's eagerness that made him uneasy, a gnawing suspicion that accepting help from him might come at a price.

"I—" Harry started, but the words caught in his throat. He hesitated, his mind racing. Before he could answer, the whistle blew, sharp and loud, signaling that it was time.

Bagman clapped him on the back, all pretense of secrecy gone as he straightened up with a beaming grin. "Good luck, Harry! Show 'em what you're made of!"

The crowd erupted into cheers, and Harry was swept forward by the momentum of the moment, his feet carrying him to the water's edge. There was no time now, no second thoughts. He would have to do it his way, no matter how underprepared he felt.

His eyes flicked to Fleur and Ivan. Neither of them looked particularly ready. Fleur's face was pale, and her lips were pressed into a thin, determined line. Ivan looked downright sick, his eyes fixed on the lake as if he were staring down his worst nightmare. There was none of the confidence or swagger they'd shown in the first task. Harry wondered if they had even solved the clue from the egg. Did they know what lay beneath the lake? Did they know they were supposed to save something dear to them?

The stands were still roaring with excitement, but the tension between the champions was palpable. It hung in the cold air like a thick fog, and Harry could feel it tightening around his chest. He took a deep breath, the freezing air burning his lungs, and stepped up to the starting point. He tried to recall the charm Fleur had used to make the cold bearable.

"Champions, take your positions!" came the magically amplified voice of Ludo Bagman.

Harry's heart raced as he bent down to remove his shoes and socks, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. His eyes were fixed on the dark, choppy waters of the lake. The thought of diving into that freezing abyss sent a shiver down his spine, but there was no choice. He glanced over at Fleur one more time. She caught his eye, offering him a brief, tight smile—one that didn't reach her eyes. She looked just as nervous as he felt.

"Three... two... one!"

The whistle blew, and without thinking, Harry dove forward into the icy water. The cold hit him like a wall, stealing the breath from his lungs and making every muscle in his body seize. He kicked hard, trying to fight the shock, but his limbs felt like lead as the freezing lake water wrapped around him.

He could feel the weight of the crowd's cheers behind him, muffled by the water, but in his mind, there was only one thought:

Free the hostage. Get out of the lake.

With a deep breath, he dived without thinking headfirst into the water. It was not a graceful dive, more of a forward collapse. He had never been very good with water.

The freezing water of the Black Lake closed over Harry like an icy fist, and every instinct screamed at him to go back to the surface. The shock of the cold hit him hard, and the weight of the task ahead made him feel even heavier as he kicked downward, forcing himself into the inky depths. The February chill seeped into his bones, numbing his limbs almost instantly, but he pushed on, his heart pounding in his chest.

Free the hostage, get out of the lake.

He repeated the thought over and over, his mind clinging to that one goal as his body struggled to cope with the icy water. His strokes were uneven, his legs kicking feebly against the dense cold. He could barely see anything now—the surface had disappeared, leaving him surrounded by blackness. Each kick dragged him farther down, but the pressure in his chest was unbearable, his lungs screaming for air.

I'm not going to make it.

Panic shot through him as the need to breathe became all-consuming. His throat spasmed violently, his mouth opening involuntarily, and water rushed in, filling his mouth and nose. His vision blurred. His thoughts grew chaotic. And then, in that moment of pure desperation, the water around him folded—an impossible sensation of everything collapsing inward.

Suddenly, he wasn't where he had been. He was deep—deeper than he should have been. The pressure slammed into him with terrifying force, crushing his chest. He flailed wildly, his limbs uncoordinated and sluggish in the frigid water. And then came the sharp, stabbing pain in his ears, like knives piercing his skull. His eardrums ruptured, and with it came a horrible rushing sensation, as if the cold water was pouring straight into his brain.

Harry's vision spun, the world tilting violently as disorientation hit him like a sledgehammer. His sinuses filled with freezing water, and his equilibrium was shot—he had no sense of up or down, no sense of direction. He was drowning. There was no air, just the freezing, suffocating water. He was going to die here, deep in the black, cold silence.

Free the hostage. Get out of the lake.

The mantra played on repeat, a desperate lifeline in his otherwise panicked mind. He had to do it. He had to at least try. His body was moving on instinct now, limbs flailing in the dark, his throat constricting painfully as his lungs begged for oxygen.

And then he saw it—a faint, ghostly outline in the pitch-black water. It was a person, tethered to the lakebed by thick ropes. He couldn't tell who it was—his vision was blurry, his senses distorted—but he didn't care. He had to act. His shaking hands reached out, fingers fumbling for the knife in his belt. His chest spasmed violently as his lungs seized, and the thought struck him again like a cruel taunt: I'm dying. I'm going to die.

His frozen fingers struggled to grip the knife, but finally, he managed to pull it free. He slashed at the ropes, his movements frantic, his body thrashing as his strength ebbed. The ropes felt like iron in his hands, but he hacked away at them, the pressure in his head building, the buzzing in his ears unbearable.

Free the hostage. Get out of the lake.

The rope finally gave way, and the limp body of the hostage floated free. Harry grabbed her, his head spinning with disorientation. He tried to pull her upward, but there was no up anymore. There was just blackness, and the agony in his chest, and the endless cold.

Then, something bumped against him—another body.

Hermione.

Through the pain, he recognized the bushy hair swirling in the water beside him, her face pale and peaceful as she floated, tethered by thick ropes just like the first hostage. Panic clawed at him again, and his already frozen fingers trembled uncontrollably. His vision was failing—darkness crept in at the edges as he fought the urge to breathe. His throat was spasming violently, his chest collapsing in on itself.

Free the hostage. Get out of the lake.

Harry slashed blindly at the ropes binding Hermione, his mind fading, his body breaking down as the cold and pressure overwhelmed him. His lungs burned, his throat tightened like a vice, and the pain in his head was like nothing he'd ever felt before. The sharp, stabbing agony in his ears combined with the swirling disorientation made it impossible to think. His thoughts were slipping, his limbs growing weaker. He had no idea where the surface was anymore.

The rope finally gave way, and Hermione drifted free. But it didn't matter. He was out of time.

Harry's body convulsed as his lungs gave in, and he drew in a choking, desperate breath—only there was no air, just freezing lake water flooding his throat. The pain was unimaginable. His lungs seized as the water filled them, and in that moment, he knew it was over.

I'm going to die.

And then—everything shifted again.

The water collapsed in on itself, folding space like before. He wasn't swimming anymore. He was being pulled, yanked upward as if the lake itself had decided to spit him out. He felt his body spinning, flipping through the water, and then—

Harry crashed onto solid ground.

The sudden shock of cold air hit his face, but he couldn't breathe. His body convulsed violently, and he rolled onto his side, coughing and retching as water spewed from his mouth. His throat burned, his lungs screaming in agony as they expelled what felt like gallons of lake water.

He was dimly aware of the rocky shore beneath him, the freezing February air cutting into his skin, but it all felt distant—unreal. His vision was still blurred, his limbs shaking uncontrollably. All he could hear was a horrible buzzing in his ears, a crackling noise like a broken radio. His ruptured eardrums made everything sound wrong, distorted, like he was trapped in some nightmarish static-filled void.

He coughed again, his body heaving as more water poured from his mouth, but still, he couldn't make out much else. There were figures next to him—Hermione and the other hostage, their pale bodies lying still on the shore—but his vision was fading, his consciousness slipping away.

Harry awoke to a sharp, piercing pain in his ears, as though someone was driving needles into his head. His surroundings were a blur of noise and movement—shouting, the lapping of water, the distant murmur of voices—but none of it sounded quite right. His hearing was muffled and broken, as though he was underwater again. Through the haze, he saw Madam Pomfrey leaning over him, her wand aimed at his ear.

He saw her blurry mouth move, but her voice came across as static. There was another sharp pain, and Harry winced as a sharp sensation deep in his head seared through him, the muffled buzzing slowly clearing. The noise around him came back in a rush—the shouts, the rustling of blankets, the howling wind from the lake. Before he could react, Pomfrey pushed a steaming potion into his hands.

"Drink this," she ordered, her tone brisk. "You've inhaled far too much water."

Harry coughed weakly but managed to down the potion, which burned as it went down, making his lungs ache even more. His breathing was still labored, every breath a struggle as his body fought to recover from the freezing depths of the lake. He blinked and looked around, trying to gather his bearings.

Next to him, a small, pale girl with soaking silver hair was sobbing hysterically, tears streaming down her face. She was shivering, her tiny body trembling uncontrollably as she kept repeating something in rapid French.

"Maman... maman... où est maman?"

Harry blinked in confusion, not recognizing the girl at all. He had no idea who she was, but she seemed terrified, her cries growing more desperate by the second.

On his other side, Hermione sat dripping wet, her hair hanging in sopping tendrils around her face. Despite the chaos, she looked remarkably composed—though her expression was one of deep concern. "Harry," she said softly, leaning in closer, "are you alright?"

"Yeah," he croaked, though his throat felt raw. His ribs ached as if he'd been punched repeatedly, and the burning in his lungs hadn't fully gone away, but he managed to nod. "What... what happened?"

Hermione shook her head, still looking bewildered. "I don't know. Last I recall I was in Dumbledores office, with her and another woman." She nodded toward the silver-haired girl.

Harry saw Professor McGonagall walking towards them across the sandy shore, looking shocked. "Potter, Miss Granger," she said, her voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and concern, "it's been less than three minutes since the task began. How in Merlin's name—" She shook her head, as though unable to grasp what had happened. "We'll have to wait for more information from the judges, but in the meantime, I suggest you rest."

Blankets were draped over Harry's shoulders, and he gratefully pulled one tighter around himself, trying to fight off the violent shivers that still wracked his body. Hermione was given one as well, and she sat beside him.

Harry glanced over at the crying girl again. She was still sobbing, her small body curled up tightly as she rocked back and forth. Instinctively, Harry reached out, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It's okay," he said softly, though he wasn't sure she understood him. "You're safe now."

The girl hiccupped, her sobs slowing as she turned her tear-streaked face toward him. She blinked, her wide, watery eyes filled with fear. Harry gave her a weak smile, even though he still felt completely out of his depth. Slowly, she calmed down, though she kept casting worried glances toward the lake.

As the minutes passed, the waiting grew heavier, more tense. Every so often, Hermione would glance over at the little French girl, her face pinched with worry. "Someone should really help her," Hermione muttered, looking around as if expecting someone from Beauxbatons to step in.

They waited for what felt like an eternity, the bitter wind biting at their faces as the water lapped against the shore. After about thirty minutes, an alarm sounded from the judges' tent, and the crowd's chatter turned to murmurs of concern. Harry's stomach clenched.

Three marshals, dressed in deep blue robes, dived into the lake without hesitation, disappearing beneath the surface.

It felt like hours passed, but it was only a few tense minutes before they reappeared, dragging Fleur from the freezing water. She looked pale—deathly pale—and her arms trembled as she clung to one of the marshals. She coughed violently, her chest heaving with each rasping breath.

"Gabrielle!" she gasped, her voice hoarse and panicked.

The little girl sprang to her feet and ran to Fleur, her sobs breaking out again. Fleur collapsed to her knees, clutching Gabrielle to her chest, speaking in rapid French, her words coming out in a mixture of relief and desperation.

Several minutes later, again the alarm sprang. The marshals returned to the water, but this time after some while, they pulled out a motionless form—Ivan Kolyo, the Durmstrang champion. His body was limp, his face pale and lifeless. A heavy silence fell over the beach as the marshals laid him down on the sand.

"He's drowned," The marshals called amongst themselves.

The judges began arguing, their voices growing louder with every passing moment. Maxime was furious, gesturing angrily toward the judges, while Madame Pomfrey rushed over to attend to Ivan, but her expression was grim.

Harry barely registered the fighting as he turned his head toward the far side of the beach. Dumbledore was speaking with several merpeople who had emerged from the lake, their grayish skin glistening in the sunlight. Their expressions were confused, their hands gesturing wildly as they tried to explain something to him. Harry couldn't understand their language, but it was clear something had gone wrong.

After a few minutes , Bagman stepped forward, raising his wand to his throat and casting Sonorus. "Ladies and gentlemen," he called, his voice echoing across the lake. "We have witnessed an extraordinary event today. In a time of two minutes and thirty-two seconds, Harry Potter has rescued both his hostage and Miss Delacour's, using means that are... well, frankly, unknown. The merpeople did not even notice the hostages missing until well after Potter had returned to shore."

The crowd erupted into stunned murmurs, but Bagman continued. "For this incredible feat, Harry Potter is awarded full marks—fifty points!"

The applause was deafening, but Harry barely heard it. His mind was still spinning from the events of the morning, and his body felt like it was about to give out at any moment.

Bagman went on to announce Fleur's score, awarding her thirty points for her attempt to save her sister, though she had not finished. He continued, that the judges had decided that a minutes silence would be held in memory of Ivan, who had bravely perished trying to save his mother. The Durmstrang students stood together, their faces pale and mournful, while Karkaroff looked furious. He left the beach before the full minute had passed.

As the minute of silence had passed, Harry noticed that Fleur was heading towards him. She ran toward him, her face streaked with tears. "'Arry! Merci!" she cried, flinging her arms around him before he could react.

Her lips pressed against his cheeks in a flurry of kisses, and Harry could barely breathe—though whether it was from the crushing hug or his own awkwardness, he couldn't tell. "You saved Gabrielle! You are a hero, 'Arry! A true champion!"

"I—it was nothing," Harry tried to say, his voice weak as he squirmed under her embrace. His chest tightened, and he coughed, a sharp pain shooting through his lungs.

As Fleur released him a sickening pressure welled up in his chest. He coughed again, harder this time, and a pink, frothy liquid sputtered from his mouth. She looked at him without comprehension.

The world tilted, and the pain in his chest flared. His legs gave way beneath him, and the last thing he heard was the annoyed voice of Madame Pomphrey asking students to get out of her way.