As the days rolled on, Hogwarts buzzed with restless energy. The looming first task hung over the castle like a thundercloud, electrifying the air with whispers and speculation. Students clustered in corners, flipping through old textbooks on magical creatures or debating what the task could entail.

Brooklyn walked briskly down the corridor between classes, her bag slung over one shoulder and a stack of books in her arms. She'd been spending her free time combing through the library for any hints about the tournament, hoping to find something Harry could use.

"Brookie!" Fred's voice rang out behind her. She turned to see both twins bounding down the hall, dodging a few irritated Hufflepuffs on their way.

"You're late," she said, arching an eyebrow as they skidded to a halt.

"Fashionably," George replied, smoothing his robe like it had been intentional.

"We were busy inventing, you know," Fred added, leaning casually against the wall. "Big things in the works."

Brooklyn rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling. "Well, unless your latest invention can help Harry survive whatever death trap the first task is, I'm not interested."

Fred's grin faltered slightly. "Speaking of Potter, how's he holding up?"

"He's trying to act like he's fine," she replied, her voice dropping as a group of Ravenclaws passed by. "But he's not. He's worried. And he should be."

The twins exchanged a look but didn't press her.

That evening, Brooklyn found herself in the common room, hunched over a table with her books spread out. Harry was nearby, scratching furiously at a piece of parchment. Hermione sat beside him, her own quill moving steadily across her notes.

"Writing to Sirius?" Brooklyn asked, glancing up from her notes.

Harry nodded without looking up. His brow was furrowed, and his handwriting grew sloppier with each word.

"Good," she said. "He'll know what to do."

"I hope so," Harry muttered, finishing the letter with a heavy sigh. He folded the parchment carefully and slipped it into an envelope.

She met his eyes, then nodded toward the owl cage by the window. "Hedwig will get it there safely. Just make sure you send it tonight."

Harry nodded, standing up and crossing the room with the letter in hand.

The next day, during Care of Magical Creatures, Hagrid dropped several hints about the upcoming task. Brooklyn, standing next to Fred and George as they wrestled with a particularly stubborn Blast-Ended Skrewt, noticed Harry's face go pale.

"Come on, Harry!" George shouted, laughing as his Skrewt attempted to leap out of its pen. "This is nothing compared to what you're facing, right?"

"Not helping, George," Brooklyn muttered, jabbing him with her elbow.

After class, she pulled Harry aside. "Hagrid knows something," she said quietly. "Did you catch the way he kept looking at you? He wants to help, but he's not allowed to say anything outright."

Harry nodded, though he still looked uneasy.

"We'll figure this out," she promised. "But you need to stay focused. No distractions."

Back in the Gryffindor common room that evening, the usual buzz of activity filled the air. Fred and George were huddled in a corner with Lee Jordan, scribbling notes and sketching designs for a new invention. Hermione was tutoring Neville, and Ron sat quietly flipping through a Quidditch magazine.

Brooklyn watched as Harry retreated to a quieter corner, staring at the fire with a pensive expression. She hesitated, then made her way over, plopping down beside him.

"Hey," she said softly. "You've got this, you know. Whatever it is, you're going to be fine."

Harry looked at her, a flicker of gratitude crossing his face. "Thanks, Brooklyn."

"Anytime."

The days grew shorter, and the tension in the castle continued to build. Brooklyn spent more time in the library than she cared to admit, but every book she read seemed to provide fewer answers and more questions.

Fred and George kept trying to distract her, pulling her into their latest schemes and experiments. Ginny joined them whenever she could, and Brooklyn found solace in their laughter and mischief.

But every time she saw Harry sitting quietly, his shoulders tense and his face drawn, the knot of worry in her stomach tightened. The first task was coming, and she had no idea how to help him.

The crisp autumn air stung Brooklyn's cheeks as she stepped onto the Quidditch pitch, broom in hand. The fading sunlight painted the sky in swirls of orange and pink, casting long shadows over the empty stadium. It was quiet, peaceful—a rare respite from the chaos of the castle.

Brooklyn mounted her broom and kicked off, soaring high above the pitch. The wind whipped through her hair, tugging at her robes as she flew a few warm-up laps. The familiar rhythm of flying settled her nerves, letting her focus on nothing but the cool air and the steady hum of her broom beneath her.

She pulled into a tight loop, then dove toward the ground, pulling up at the last second with a rush of exhilaration. Quidditch had always been her sanctuary. The pitch was the one place where nothing else mattered—not her family, not her worries about Harry, and certainly not the looming threat of the Triwizard Tournament.

Gripping her broom tighter, she grabbed the Quaffle she'd brought with her and began running drills. She practiced weaving through the goalposts, alternating between sharp passes and quick shots. Sweat beaded on her forehead, but she didn't stop, throwing herself into each movement with fierce determination.

She didn't realize she had an audience until she spun around after a particularly tricky maneuver and spotted Viktor Krum leaning against the railing of the stands. His dark eyes followed her every move, a small, amused smile playing at his lips.

"Impressive," he called out, his thick Bulgarian accent cutting through the evening stillness.

Brooklyn froze mid-hover, caught off guard. She lowered herself to the ground, gripping her broom as she walked toward him. "How long have you been watching?"

"Long enough," he replied, stepping down onto the pitch. "You fly very vell. Not many can handle a broom like that."

Brooklyn shrugged, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I've been playing since I was a kid. Chaser for Gryffindor. Sixth year now."

"I see," Krum said, nodding thoughtfully. "You play vith passion. Most do not. They play to vin, but you… you fly like it is a part of you."

Her cheeks flushed, though she wasn't entirely sure if it was from exertion or his words. "Thanks, I guess. What are you doing here?"

Krum gestured toward the pitch. "I vas going for a valk. The noise inside… it is too much. I thought maybe the field vould be quiet, but then I see you. And you, you are not quiet at all."

Brooklyn laughed despite herself. "Yeah, I needed to clear my head." She hesitated, then added, "Things have been… complicated lately."

Krum tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that made her squirm. "Complicated how?"

She looked away, focusing on the golden horizon. "It's nothing. Just—stuff. Family, friends, school." She glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow. "You're the famous Quidditch star. Don't you have anything better to do than hang around watching school kids practice?"

He grinned at that, a rare, genuine expression that softened his sharp features. "Maybe I like vatching. You are better than most I have seen, even here."

Brooklyn snorted, trying to ignore the way his compliment made her stomach flip. "You must be desperate for entertainment."

"Not desperate," he said, stepping a little closer. "Just curious. You are… different."

Her brow furrowed. "Different how?"

Krum hesitated, as though searching for the right words. "You are strong, but not… how do you say… cold. Many are strong, but they have no fire. You? You have both."

Brooklyn wasn't sure how to respond to that, so she settled for rolling her eyes. "You don't even know me."

"Not yet," Krum said simply.

An awkward silence stretched between them, and Brooklyn decided it was time to change the subject. "Well, if you're so impressed, how about you show me what you can do?" she challenged, holding out her broom.

Krum's eyes lit up, and he took the broom with a small bow. "If you insist."

Brooklyn crossed her arms, watching as he mounted the broom with practiced ease and shot into the air. His movements were precise, almost effortless, as he executed a series of flawless dives and spins. It was like watching a hawk in flight—controlled power with a touch of elegance.

When he landed, Brooklyn couldn't help but clap. "Alright, I'll admit it—you're good."

"Good?" Krum repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I am the best."

Brooklyn laughed. "Modest, too."

He handed her broom back, their fingers brushing briefly. "Maybe I vill see you again, Brooklyn," he said, her name rolling off his tongue like it was something precious.

"Maybe," she replied, her voice more confident than she felt.

As Krum turned and walked away, Brooklyn stood there, her broom in hand and her heart racing for reasons she didn't quite understand.

Rita Skeeter's Bombshell

The Great Hall buzzed with morning chatter, the clinking of cutlery and the rustle of owls delivering the day's post creating a familiar backdrop. Brooklyn sat at the Gryffindor table between Fred and George, who were noisily debating the merits of their latest invention—a faintly smoking pair of prank glasses—when a sharp gasp from Hermione caught everyone's attention.

"Have you seen this?" Hermione's voice was filled with outrage as she slapped a copy of the Daily Prophet onto the table.

Brooklyn leaned forward, reading the headline:

"The Boy Who Lived: Tragic Hero or Reckless Glory-Seeker?"

Beneath it was a large photograph of Harry, looking wide-eyed and awkward, clearly taken without his knowledge. Beside him in the picture was Hermione, her face turned slightly, giving the impression of a wistful, starry-eyed admirer.

Fred whistled low. "Blimey. That's a bit dramatic, even for Skeeter."

Brooklyn's stomach churned as she skimmed the article. Rita Skeeter had spun an elaborate tale of Harry's supposed thirst for fame, complete with hints that he'd deliberately entered the Triwizard Tournament despite being underage. The article painted Hermione as his devoted sidekick and implied there might be something more between them.

"She's twisting everything!" Hermione fumed, her cheeks flushed with anger. "I was only answering her questions! And I certainly didn't say that! Look at this nonsense about Harry!"

Harry, sitting a little further down the table with Ron, had gone pale. He stared at the paper in disbelief, his mouth slightly open.

"Mate," Fred began, but Harry cut him off.

"Everyone's going to think I actually put my name in, won't they?" His voice was quiet, but there was an edge of panic in it.

Brooklyn exchanged a glance with George, who shrugged uncomfortably.

"They don't believe it already?" Ron's voice cut through the tension.

Harry turned to him, his expression sharp. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ron crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "Nothing. Just that it's convenient, isn't it? You're the youngest champion in history. Bet Rita Skeeter loves that little detail."

Brooklyn frowned. "Ron, come on. You know Harry didn't put his name in."

Ron ignored her, focusing entirely on Harry. "It's always you, isn't it? The bloody Boy Who Lived. Can't go a year without something happening to you."

Harry stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. "You think I wanted this?" His voice shook with frustration. "You think I asked to have my name come out of the Goblet? To have my life turned into another circus?"

"Well, it's not like you mind all the attention," Ron shot back. "You're loving this, aren't you? Everyone staring, whispering—'Oh, look, it's Harry Potter!'"

Brooklyn opened her mouth to intervene, but Hermione grabbed her arm, shaking her head slightly.

"You're unbelievable," Harry spat, his hands clenched into fists. "I thought you were my friend."

"Maybe I don't want to be in your shadow all the time!" Ron snapped, his voice louder now. "Did you ever think of that? Maybe I'm sick of everything being about you!"

The table around them went deathly quiet.

"Fine," Harry said, his voice cold. "If that's how you feel, then stay out of it. I don't need your jealousy on top of everything else."

Without another word, Harry stormed out of the hall, leaving his uneaten breakfast behind.

Brooklyn sighed, standing up. "Ron, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Ron didn't answer, his ears turning red as he stared at his plate.

Brooklyn glanced at Hermione. "I'll go after him."

Hermione nodded, her expression troubled. "He's probably heading for the common room."

Brooklyn hurried out of the Great Hall, weaving through the corridors until she found Harry sitting on a bench near a set of tapestries. His face was pale, and his hands were shaking slightly.

"Harry," she said gently, sitting down beside him.

"I didn't ask for this," he muttered, his voice barely audible.

"I know," she said softly. "Ron knows it too. He's just… Ron. He's jealous, but he'll come around."

Harry shook his head. "It's not just Ron. Everyone's looking at me like I'm some kind of cheat. Like I wanted this stupid tournament. I don't even know how to survive the first task, let alone win."

Brooklyn placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're not alone in this. You've got Hermione, Ginny, the twins, me. You've got Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Sirius. You'll figure it out, Harry. You always do."

For the first time that morning, Harry smiled faintly. "Thanks, Brooklyn."

"Anytime," she said, giving his shoulder a squeeze before standing. "Come on. Let's get back before Hermione bursts a blood vessel."

Harry chuckled softly, and together they made their way back to Gryffindor Tower.