Despite his bold claim to begin, Harry didn't move. Instead, he stood there, barehanded, watching, waiting to react. Silence stretched between them, the only sound the faint scraping of Cedric's boots as he adjusted his stance.
But he didn't attack either. Because he was waiting for Harry to draw his wand, to fight fair.
A scoff left Harry's lips, barely more than an exhale, and in response, the Sirocco Sceptre snapped into his waiting hand, expanding instantly—a single, seamless motion.
Which was all the warning Cedric got.
With a sharp thrust of the sceptre behind him, Harry launched himself into the air, rocketing toward Cedric in a blur of motion. The sudden burst of wind sent loose dust skidding across the icy floor as he dove straight at him.
Cedric reacted instantly, flicking his wand up. "Stupefy!"
The red bolt of light streaked upward—fast, precise, perfectly timed. But not fast enough, as Harry batted it aside with the sceptre into the far wall.
But Harry wasn't even watching. He was already descending, the force of his dive aimed straight at Cedric's centre.
Cedric rolled smoothly, evading the direct hit, whilst using the roll to begin his counter. His wand was already carving through the air as he turned, causing the ground to tremble.
With a sharp outward motion of his wand, a wave of stone surged toward Harry—an undulating wall of jagged earth meant to swallow him whole.
As he fell towards the awaiting wave, Harry drew his sword with his spare hand, and in a single fluid movement, plunging it deep into the stone at his feet.
Immediately frost exploded outward, and the creeping wave of earth froze solid, its momentum grinding to a halt. The once-fluid motion of Cedric's attack became nothing more than an ice-sculpted ruin, splitting apart on either side of him.
Grinning, Harry shifted his grip on the embedded sword, and yanked himself forward, launching toward Cedric once again. The moment he moved, he willed the sword free— his wandless magic ripping it from the frozen ground and into his waiting hand.
Eyes widening in fear, Cedric pulled the earth upward into a thick barrier, sealing himself behind it. A classic defence—fortifying his ground while preparing for a counterstrike.
Harry's sword met the stone a second later.
The ice-laced blade carved into the barrier, sending a spider web of deep fractures through it. But before he could break through, the wall exploded outward.
Shrapnel-like debris erupted toward him in all directions. At the same time, chains burst from the floor, iron-like stone twisting and curling toward him, seeking his limbs.
For the briefest moment, Harry had to give Cedric credit. Good timing. Then he thrust the sceptre downward, releasing a concentrated blast of wind.
The shattered stone, the flying debris, the coiling chains—all of it was sent hurtling away from him, as the powerful gust swept the battlefield clean.
Cedric barely had a second to react before Harry landed, and a single downward strike of the sceptre sent a deep fissure splitting through the stone.
All around them, chunks of stone began to rise from the fissure, swirling like miniature meteorites at Harry's command. He needed no verbal incantation or flourish, his sheer control was all that he needed as the makeshift projectiles spun in place.
Cedric's eyes flicked up, understanding what was coming. Only, when he raised his wand, it was to summon the levitating stones toward him instead of away. The floating debris clumped together, compressing, solidifying, turning it into a shield he could use.
But Harry wasn't interested in waiting. With a flick of his sceptre, he sent a shockwave of wind crashing into Cedric before he could finish. The force sent him skidding backward, nearly knocking him off balance.
Now that he had his opening, Harry stepped forward and sent another. Stronger. This time, Cedric barely caught himself, boots sliding against the frozen stone. His hands trembled slightly as he struggled to brace against the gale.
Harry sent another, stronger still. Under the pressure, the floating rock he'd been forming shattered apart, as Cedric's foot lost its grip.
That was all it took, as a final burst sent him flying. He slammed into the far wall with a resounding thud, his wand slipping from his grip as his breath left him in a sharp gasp.
And before he could recover, Harry's wandless Stunning Spell shot forward. The red light struck clean, and Cedric's body slumped against the stone motionless.
Harry exhaled, letting the tension roll off his shoulders as he straightened. The last gust of wind settled into silence, the battlefield stilling around him.
Rolling his shoulders and relaxing, Harry stepped toward Cedric's unconscious form. He wasn't in a rush—the lesson had already been made. Cedric's eyes fluttered open the moment Harry's Rennervate hit him, blinking blearily as he inhaled sharply.
Before he could fully process what happened, Harry reached down, gripping his forearm, and pulled him to his feet.
"Luckily, this was just a friendly fight," Harry said, matter-of-factly, releasing him.
Cedric, still unsteady, took a breath, his fingers clenching slightly. He didn't speak—not yet.
"You were foolish to fight fair," Harry continued simply, meeting his gaze. "And to come unprepared."
Nodding up at Ron, he hoped the boy would have the sense to reinforce the lesson for the others.
Then, without another word, Harry turned and walked out of the Room, slipping his hands toward his coat pockets—only to remember, too late, that Daphne was still holding his coat.
Choosing to keep walking anyway, rather than have to turn around, willing Daphne would catch up.
That night, the Ravenclaw common room buzzed with quiet conversation as the fifth year students scanned the posted schedules near the notice board. A fresh sheet of parchment had been pinned up that afternoon:
Fifth-Year Careers Advice Meetings
All students are required to meet with their Head of House to discuss future career prospects.
Appointments will be held in the appropriate Head of House's office at designated times.
Beneath it, a list of names and times had been neatly arranged, which Harry had skimmed, noting that his name was near the top.
It wasn't as though he had strong feelings about this meeting. Career plans were for people who actually had a future they could predict—his future was currently shaped like Voldemort, and that made it difficult to plan around.
But knowing he now had to talk with Flitwick about his lack of future was giving him an unpleasant tingling he wasn't comfortable with.
By next morning, Harry had decided it was best to get it over with, as he made his way to Professor Flitwick's office, hands tucked into his pockets.
Pushing open the door, he was greeted by the familiar sight of a cluttered but warm office, parchment stacks teetering dangerously on one side of the desk, a few floating books idly drifting near the ceiling. Flitwick himself sat atop a large cushion behind his desk, beaming as he gestured for Harry to take a seat.
"Ah, Mr. Potter, right on time!" Flitwick said cheerfully, adjusting his glasses. "Come in, come in. This is meant to be an informal discussion, so don't feel pressured."
Harry relaxed almost immediately. He settled into the chair opposite Flitwick, feeling far more at ease than he had expected.
"You say that now, Professor, but I'm sure you'll change your mind when you hear my complete lack of a plan," he said dryly.
Flitwick chuckled, leaning forward slightly. "Well, then, let's start there. What are your thoughts on the future, Harry?"
"Honestly Professor? It's like every time I look in the future, I see this big dark ugly cloud that wants to kill me, and it makes thinking about planning a career rather pointless." Harry muttered.
"Is that truly all you see in your future, Mr. Potter?" Flitwick asked mournfully, "You have no hopes for when it might be over?"
Before Harry could answer, the door creaked open. Both he and Flitwick turned as Dolores Umbridge stepped into the office, uninvited.
Flitwick shot Harry a glance—just a flicker of apology, his lips pressing together for half a second before he schooled his expression into polite neutrality.
"Ah, Professor Umbridge," he greeted pleasantly, folding his hands on the desk. "I wasn't expecting company. I thought you had a lesson at this time?"
Umbridge beamed, her saccharine smile firmly in place as she stepped further inside, making no effort to justify her intrusion.
"Oh, a minor scheduling matter, I'm sure," she said airily, waving a hand as if the details were beneath her. "But since I happened to be free, I thought I might sit in. After all…"—her gaze flicked toward Harry, and her smile tightened—"certain students require a little… extra guidance when discussing their futures."
Her tone dripped with false concern, but the implication was clear. In reply, Harry leaned back slightly in his chair, keeping his expression unreadable.
Flitwick, to his credit, didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he simply nodded, his polite tone unwavering.
"Well," he said lightly, "as you've no doubt heard, we were just discussing Mr. Potter's aspirations."
Umbridge tilted her head, her smile tightening just slightly. "Ah, yes," she said, stepping closer. "And what has young Mr. Potter decided for his future?"
Harry didn't miss the condescension in her tone—like she already knew his answer would be something she could twist.
He shrugged. "I haven't decided yet."
Flitwick, as expected, took this in stride. "And that's perfectly fine," he said, nodding. "As I was telling Harry, he doesn't need to settle on a career today. Instead, it's worth considering what areas of magic he enjoys most, regardless of where they lead."
"Ah." Umbridge's expression didn't shift, but something in her eyes sharpened. "Self-indulgence, then. A luxury few can afford."
Flitwick kept his smile, but his fingers laced together on his desk, just a little tighter. "I would argue, Professor, that self-discovery is hardly indulgence. Hogwarts is a place of learning, after all."
Harry could tell Umbridge was irritated that he wasn't taking the bait. She pressed forward.
"And what, pray tell, do you find yourself most interested in, Mr. Potter?"
The way she said it made it sound like she already had an answer—like she was waiting for him to confirm whatever negative assumption she'd already made.
Harry matched her gaze, still unreadable. "I haven't really thought about it."
"That much is clear," she said, with a little too much satisfaction.
Flitwick cleared his throat, reclaiming the conversation. "Which is exactly why I suggested that, should Harry wish, he can always arrange a follow-up meeting at a later date. Once he's had more time to explore his interests."
Umbridge let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking her head as though Flitwick had just said something amusingly naïve.
"Oh, Filius," she sighed. "You always have had such… idealistic notions."
And then, her smile turned pointed.
"Though I suppose that comes from experience, doesn't it? You must be rather familiar with… limited options for the future."
The air in the office cooled as Harry's fingers curled against the armrest of his chair.
Flitwick didn't react at first, his expression carefully neutral, but there was something unreadable in his eyes.
"Oh, I simply mean," Umbridge continued, placing a delicate hand over her chest, "it must have been difficult for someone like you, wasn't it? Carving out a respectable place for yourself despite… natural obstacles?"
Flitwick blinked slowly. "My talent and credentials were more than enough to earn me this position, Professor."
Umbridge tittered, waving a hand. "Oh, of course, dear. But I expect you've always had to work so much harder than others for the same respect, haven't you? A truly admirable effort."
Harry felt something hot coil in his chest. It wasn't enough for Umbridge to belittle him, to try and make sure his future was limited. No, she wanted to tear down Flitwick too—one of the most brilliant wizards Harry had ever met—just because he wasn't human enough for her.
He smiled faintly, pushing himself to his feet. "Professor Flitwick," he said lightly, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, "I think I've got enough to consider for now."
Flitwick's eyes flicked to him—just for a moment, with a quiet understanding.
"Of course, Harry," he said smoothly. "As I said, my door is always open if you wish to discuss anything further."
Harry turned to Umbridge, masking his disgust beneath polite indifference.
"Professor."
She beamed at him. "I do hope you'll put more thought into your future, dear."
"Oh, I will," he assured her. His choice was made, he was already planning hers. "I assure you I won't forget your help here when I consider my future prospects."
With that, he walked out, his next move already forming in his mind. Upon reaching his workshop, he wasted no time in writing his letter. Reaching for Corvus II, he activated the mithril bird and tucked the letter into his secret compartment.
"Go deliver this to Gilderoy Lockhart." Harry instructed, letting the bird glide away, almost immediately turning invisible and intangible as it flew out.
When the time came for his meeting, Harry snuck out of the castle and down to the Hog's Head.
The air in the village was sharp with lingering cold, the cobbled streets quieter than usual at this hour. Most students would be at dinner, making this the perfect window to avoid unwanted attention.
The Hog's Head was as unwelcoming as ever. The grime on the windows had settled into permanent residence, and the heavy wooden door let out a reluctant creak as Harry pushed it open.
Inside, the tavern was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of stale ale and something faintly reminiscent of burning wool. A lone wizard in the corner hunched over a tankard, ignoring the world. Behind the bar, Aberforth Dumbledore barely glanced up from cleaning a glass, though one bushy eyebrow twitched in recognition.
Harry gave him a slight nod before moving toward a table tucked into the shadows near the back.
He didn't have to wait long, as the door swung open again, and a swirl of heavy perfume and lilac fabric entered first.
Harry watched as Gilderoy smoothed down his ridiculous robes, casting a bright, self-assured smile at the uninterested patrons. His hair was still perfectly styled, his teeth unnaturally whitened, but there was that authenticism to him now.
"Ah, Harry!" Lockhart beamed, striding toward him with the confidence of a man who had never had a single doubt in his life. "An absolute pleasure, dear boy— so rare to have a meeting with someone who isn't just a fan these days, you know. But of course, I always have time for friends."
Lockhart swept into the chair opposite Harry, draping his cloak dramatically over the backrest as if they were meeting in a high-profile lounge rather than a dimly lit, half-empty tavern.
"Busy schedule, I take it?" Harry asked dryly, watching as Lockhart brushed imaginary dust off his sleeve.
"Oh, positively hectic," Lockhart sighed, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "The demands of fame, Harry—you wouldn't believe it. Well, actually, you would." He flashed a knowing grin. "No matter how much you try to hide away, the world always wants a piece of you."
Harry tilted his head slightly but didn't argue, choosing instead to change the subject. "Can I buy you a drink?
Lockhart's grin widened. "Oh, Harry, what a kind gesture! I'd be delighted with a bottle of Quintin Black."
Before Harry could flag Aberforth down, the door opened yet again, the sharp click of heels cutting through the low murmur of the tavern.
Harry looked up as Rita Skeeter strode over, her eyes already alight with interest.
"Mr. Potter," she greeted smoothly, peeling off her green leather gloves one finger at a time before sliding into the seat beside Lockhart. "And Gilderoy—marvellous to see you as always."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Can I get you something, Rita?"
Her smile widened. "How thoughtful. A firewhiskey for me, dear."
Harry nodded, turning toward the bar without another word.
By the time he returned, a tray balanced in his hands, Rita was already engaged in conversation.
"Your latest book has been flying off the shelves," she purred, accepting the firewhiskey from Harry with a delicate hand. "I hear Salazar's Secrets has already outsold Magical Me—must be thrilling for you."
Lockhart beamed, looking entirely pleased with himself. "Ah, yes, well, people do love a good mystery, don't they? And when it involves dear Harry, well…" He gestured vaguely at him as Harry set his own firewhiskey down before settling into his seat.
"Ah, and here's our host," Rita said brightly, lifting her glass in a small toast. "To opportunity, then."
She took a sip, then leaned in slightly, her smile sharpening at the edges.
"Now, dear—why don't you tell me why we're here?"
Harry didn't hesitate. His fingers rested lightly against his own glass, unreadable. "I'm giving you exactly what happened the evening of the third task."
Rita's fingers, which had been idly tapping against her glass, stilled.
Her expression remained perfectly composed, but Harry saw the flicker of hesitation—the slight calculation in her eyes as she took another slow sip of her drink.
"That's…" She let the word linger, choosing it carefully. "Quite the offer."
She didn't reach for her quill, not yet. Instead, she studied him, her gaze weighing more than just his words.
"And why, exactly, would I take that risk?"
"Because you don't just want a story, Rita." Harry replied calmly, meeting her gaze. "You want the story."
He took a careful moment to let that sink in, before going in for the kill. "Nobody else has bothered to report on my actual story. And this is the one that changes everything."
Rita lifted her glass again, taking a slow sip, her eyes briefly unfocused as she considered.
When she finally spoke, it was half to herself.
"Well… it's not as if I don't want the story."
She tapped a manicured nail against the side of her glass.
"But wanting and printing are two very different things." Her eyes flicked back to Harry. "I'll hear you out. No promises."
Harry gave a slow nod, he'd expected nothing less.
Before he could continue, Lockhart leaned forward, his expression suddenly bright with inspiration.
"Well now," he said, swirling his drink in his glass, "I might be able to help with that."
Rita's eyes flicked to him, unimpressed.
"Oh?"
Lockhart flashed one of his signature dazzling smiles. "I happen to have a friend over at the Wizarding Wireless Network—you know, The Voice of the People and all that—who might be able to get us a slot to read out the interview."
There was a brief pause as Rita pursed her lips.
"The radio?" she repeated, in a tone of mild disdain.
Lockhart, unfazed, nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes—imagine it! Live reporting! The public hearing Harry's words for themselves, unfiltered, raw—"
Rita exhaled sharply, setting down her drink with a deliberate clink.
"The radio," she muttered again, like the very idea offended her.
"I won't be able to get enough time away to do something like that," he warned.
Lockhart perked up, undeterred. "Well then! That's not a problem at all, dear boy—Rita and I can read out the interview instead."
Rita's brows lifted slightly, her expression momentarily blank before her lips pursed.
"Oh, can we?" she mused, tilting her head in a way that wasn't entirely dismissive, but far from convinced.
Lockhart grinned, leaning forward. "Come now, Rita! Two of the wizarding world's finest voices delivering a riveting, exclusive exposé? Think of the reach! Think of the impact!"
Harry took a sip of his firewhiskey, watching as Rita rolled the idea around in her head.
She clicked her nails lightly against the table. "The Prophet would still be the better option."
"Of course, of course!" Lockhart waved a hand. "But—if your usual connections just so happen to find the Prophet unwilling to take the risk…" He let the thought linger.
Rita exhaled, then reached for her drink again. "I'll consider it. But first—let's hear what exactly we're working with."
Her eyes flicked back to Harry.
"Start talking, dear."
As he thought back and began retelling the story, Rita listened, silent for once, her quill hovering over parchment, waiting. Lockhart, for all his usual dramatics, had gone oddly still, his expression unreadable.
But Harry wasn't looking at them. His fingers rested against his firewhiskey, tracing the rim of the glass as he forced himself to keep going.
The cup had been a Portkey. He had landed in a cold, dark graveyard, still breathless from the maze, completely unaware of what was about to happen.
By the time he'd realized he wasn't alone, it had already been too late.
The words felt thick in his throat, heavy. He didn't want to tell them, but he did.
He told her about Pettigrew. About the cauldron, the ritual, the blood sacrifice that forced his magic away from him. He told her about Voldemort. The way he had stepped out of that cauldron, not as a spirit, not as a whisper, but alive. Whole.
The Death Eaters had arrived, one by one. Harry had tried to fight, but he was bound, gagged, his magic crushed beneath Voldemort's will.
And then came the duel. The first curse had hit him before he even had a chance. The pain was unlike anything else.
He told her about the Cruciatus. The Imperius. The way Voldemort had toyed with him in front of his followers, testing him like an experiment.
His grip on the glass tightened, but he kept talking.
He told her about how the cup had still been there. The one thing Voldemort hadn't considered. The moment he'd seen it, he ran, and had grabbed hold of it like a lifeline. It was over in an instant.
One moment he was in the graveyard, Voldemort raising his wand to end it. The next, he was crashing onto the Hogwarts grass, surrounded by screaming.
In the silence that followed, Rita still didn't start to write. Her fingers only tapped the table, her face unreadable.
Harry exhaled, leaning back slightly, running a hand over his face. He hadn't realized how tight his chest had gotten, how the words had clawed their way out of him.
"Do you want me to show you my injuries?" Harry then asked her, "Because I've still got my scars from it."
The silence stretched for another second, only broken by the quiet tapping of Rita's nails against the table.
Then, finally, she tilted her head, considering him.
Her eyes flicked briefly to his hands, then back to his face.
"Go on, then," she murmured. "Let's see."
There was no amusement in her voice. No teasing lilt.
Just curiosity. Sharp and unflinching.
Harry didn't hesitate. Reaching up, he pulled back the sleeve of his left arm, simultaneously canceling the charm. For a second, nothing happened.
Then, with a quiet twist, the mithril detached.
Rita didn't move, didn't speak. Her gaze flickered between the exposed limb and the gleaming piece of enchanted metal now resting in his lap.
The skin just below his elbow was still twisted, knotted—scarred over in a way that could never be undone.
Harry flexed his fingers, as Rita let out a slow breath, her own fingers tightening around her glass.
Lockhart, for once, didn't have anything to say, rubbing his own severed arm.
Seeing that Rita's eyes were fixed on his arm, Harry then slowly reached down and pulled his right trouser leg up, revealing the dark red scar that had almost bisected his ankle.
Rita's eyes flicked to it. She didn't gasp. Didn't wince. Just stared, her jaw set.
Her fingers drummed once against the table. Then, in a low voice, she asked, "The names, Harry."
She lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes properly for the first time since he'd started talking.
"The Death Eaters," she clarified. "Who was there?"
Harry exhaled slowly, rolling his sleeve back down and reattaching the mithril with a quiet click. Then, started rattling off every name he could remember.
Which was a lot, given how many times he'd relived that memory.
"Those were the ones who responded to Voldemort's call," Harry finished, before leaning forward.
"But there are two more names that are important here."
At his announcement, Rita's quill halted mid-stroke, but Harry didn't let the silence last long.
"The first is Bartemius Crouch… Junior. As you know, he was sent to Azkaban, but before he died, his mother forced Senior to smuggle Junior out, leaving the mother behind under Polyjuice."
Rita inhaled sharply, and then, in a whisper barely above the crackle of the firewhiskey in her glass, she murmured,
"…Isolde."
She exhaled through her nose, tapping her nail once against the parchment before finally looking at him again. "And the other name? Who was the other important person?"
"The woman who helped grease the wheels Voldemort needed, someone who ensured our dear Minister would never believe me, and who's been at the forefront of accusing me of lying," Harry announced dramatically, lying through his teeth, "Dolores Jane Umbridge!"
Now, days later, Harry sat in his workshop, hands clasped, staring at the old wireless perched on his workbench. Rita had, of course, pressed for more details, but she'd bought every word he'd given her.
Having told his friends about the interview, they'd all gathered to hear it.
"And finally, in international news… After Head Auror Sauvageon spoke out against his Ministry's cover-up, we can now confirm that he has been dishonourably discharged.
We reached out to the Caribbean Ministry for comment, but they have yet to respond. With rising tensions and whispers of instability, it seems the political landscape in the Caribbean is shifting in ways few could have predicted."
The broadcast crackled into another segment, causing Harry to finally sit up.
"Now, in our local news, we bring you an exclusive interview. We turn to renowned journalist Rita Skeeter and best-selling author Gilderoy Lockhart for an account that may change everything you think you know."
Harry leaned back in his chair, hands clasped in his lap as Lockhart's voice followed, warm, confident, and already far too pleased with himself.
"That's right, dear listeners! Harry himself has entrusted us with his story—an unfiltered, uncompromised account. And as his stand-in for the evening, I shall do my utmost to bring you his words exactly as he spoke them.
"If you draw your minds back to the Triwizard Tournament, but the Third Task was a trap!" he announced, his voice thick with dramatics.
Harry rolled his eyes, knowing he hadn't said it like that. The interview continued with that embellishment, with Lockhart playing up every moment.
The eerie silence of the graveyard became "a suffocating darkness, a place where hope itself had been strangled." The resurrection became "a monstrous rebirth, a spectacle of shadow and suffering."
But at least Lockhart had the sense to keep one thing accurate, he made sure the audience understood just how overwhelming it had been. The pain, the helplessness, the sheer weight of Voldemort's return.
And, above all else, his injuries.
Lockhart lingered on them. The blood loss, the scars, the damage that would never fully heal. That, at least, was real. Then came the names. Harry listened as Lockhart read them out, one by one, his voice shifting into something more solemn.
Then Rita's voice cut in, sharp and deliberate.
"And there was one more name—one more person who played a role in ensuring the world wouldn't believe Harry Potter."
"That's right! Dolores Jane Umbridge."
Harry could almost hear the moment people across Britain started talking, he could certainly feel the way his friends turned to stare at him.
But for now, he ignored them, and let out a slow breath, staring at the wireless as the broadcast moved on. It was done.
Whatever version of the truth Lockhart had spun, this was the version people would hear.
Once the rest of his friends had filed out, he turned and saw Daphne had folded her arms, leaning against his workbench.
"You never mentioned Umbridge before."
Harry didn't look up, choosing instead to focus on another prototype for his Mutatio watch.
"Didn't I?"
"No." Her voice was flat. "Not once. Not even a hint. And now, suddenly, she's part of Voldemort's plan?"
Harry finally met her gaze, setting the quartz watch face down. "And what does that tell you?"
Daphne exhaled sharply, watching him. Studying him. "You lied to Rita."
It wasn't a question, and he wasn't about to deny it.
"And now people are talking about it, aren't they?" He pointed out, "I didn't even know Umbridge existed until the last few months, but she wants me to take her seriously. So now I'm playing her games."
Daphne, to his surprise, didn't argue. But she didn't look satisfied either.
"Fine," she said. "But did you plan for what happens next?"
"You'll have to be more specific." He pointed out.
Folding her arms, Daphne didn't break eye contact. "She's not just going to roll over. The Ministry isn't going to sit quietly while you drag one of their own through the mud."
Barely shrugging, he was struggling to see her point. "And?"
Sighing, she leant towards him. "And you'd better have something ready for when they fight back."
Harry tilts his head. "Worried about me?"
Scoffing, she shook her head slowly. "Of course I am. And I'm worried about bad strategy."
As her gaze stayed locked on his, she pushed away from the desk, stepping up to him. "You threw the first punch, Harry. What happens when they hit back?"
He held her stare for a moment, then reached for her and held her close, letting a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "Then we'll see how well they can fight. This just has to be a stop gap, another move for Umbridge to deal with whilst I can keep training."
Sighing again, she tucked her head against him, humming in discontent. "Will things ever be straightforward with you?"
"That's the question, isn't it." He rested his chin lightly against her hair. "Maybe my life was never meant to be easy."
Importing this chapter broke most of the formatting again, and it looks like it auto spell checked it. No ideas why, but I think I've fixed it all back.