By the bitter end of February, the skies above Hogwarts were a low-hanging grey, and the winds howled down from the mountains with a vengeance. It was the sort of morning that made one regret ever having left the common room—especially if one was expected to stand by the Black Lake for over an hour.
"Who in Merlin's name came up with this task?" Berenice grumbled, yanking her scarf tighter round her neck until only the tip of her nose poked out. "A task under the Black Lake—inthisweather? Have they forgotten we're in Scotland?"
"No clue," Eleanor replied through chattering teeth, clutching Adrian's arm as they made their way carefully along the muddy, rain-slick path down to the water's edge.
Ahead, raised stands had been erected along the bank, offering the students a decent view—though, Eleanor thought grimly,of what exactly, remained to be seen. They reached the front row just in time to hear Ludo Bagman's magically magnified voice boom over the assembled crowd. Four figures were already knee-deep in the frigid water, shivering visibly.
"Right then! Our champions are assembled and ready," Bagman announced cheerfully, as if they weren't about to plunge into a freezing lake. "On my whistle, they will have precisely one hour to recover what has been taken from them."
"Potter doesn't look anywhere near ready," came Montague's muttered voice from the row behind them.
Bagman blew his whistle, and immediately the champions sprang into action. Potter shoved something into his mouth and began chewing furiously; Delacour and Diggory performed the Bubble-Head Charm flawlessly, while Krum took a rather more disturbing approach—his head and shoulders morphed into that of a shark.
Within moments, they had all vanished beneath the surface.
Dumbledore, with a flick of his wand, conjured an enormous hourglass above the lake.
"Brilliant," Berenice muttered. "We're meant to just stare at the water for an hour now? What's next, paint drying in the dungeons?"
Eleanor shrugged and drew out her well-worn copy ofSense & Sensibility, shielding the pages with a waterproofing charm as she leant against Adrian.
"Honestly," Berenice scoffed, spotting the novel. "Onlyyouwould think to bring Jane Austen to a life-or-death competition."
"Always be prepared," Eleanor said with a grin. "Besides, I brought it to the Quidditch final too—remember?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
About fifteen minutes into their literary-and-lakewatching ordeal, a soaked and panicked Fleur Delacour burst from the water, gasping and scratched.
"It appears Miss Delacour encountered some trouble with the local grindylows," Bagman announced, as Madam Pomfrey and Madam Maxime hurried forward to usher her to the medical tent.
"Gabrielle! Ma petite soeur!" Fleur cried, struggling against Madam Pomfrey's grip. It took Maxime's firm words in rapid French to calm her.
Not long after, Cedric Diggory broke the surface, Cho Chang cradled carefully in his arms. He was one minute over the allotted hour.
"Looks like they're rescuing their Yule Ball dates," Adrian observed.
"No, because Roger Davies is right there," Berenice replied, nodding toward the stand beside them, where Davies and Theron Beaufort sat chatting.
Theron caught Berenice's eye and gave a broad, warm smile. Her cheeks pinkened instantly.
"Or just someone important to them," Eleanor mused. "I think Fleur's sister was taken. And the Patils are both in the stands, so it's not them."
"Hermione Granger's missing," Adrian noted.
"For Potter or Krum?"
"Krum, look!"
Indeed, Krum resurfaced moments later, a coughing Hermione clutched to his chest. Her frantic gaze swept the crowd—likely searching for Potter.
"Whereisthat boy?" Adrian said, staring at the hourglass.
More than thirty agonising minutes passed before three heads broke through the surface—Harry, Ron, and a silvery-haired girl who could only be Fleur's little sister.
Hermione flung herself at Harry in a grateful hug, while Madam Pomfrey bustled around with warming blankets. Behind them, Hestia Crow's unimpressed voice floated forward.
"Typical Gryffindor—had to play the hero, didn't he? Did he really think they'd let that girl drown?"
Dumbledore, now standing beside the lake with the merpeople's chieftainess, translated her garbled speech for the other judges. In the nearby stand, Eleanor spotted George Weasley, his colour finally returning.
She looked away quickly and focused instead on Emil Rosier, speaking with a stern-faced merman not far from the judges.
He had asked her to Hogsmeade again the week prior, but Eleanor had deflected with a mountain of homework—half real, half invented. With ten N.E.W.T.s on her plate, it hadn't been entirely untrue.
Yet Emil Rosier remained a puzzle. Polite to a fault, handsome enough to cause a stir with every appearance, and oddly respectful of her time—something had shifted between them. He had even helped her locate obscure texts in the Restricted Section.
Even now, his eyes found hers in the crowd. He smiled. It was the kind of smile that made her stomach swoop alarmingly.
Next to her, Adrian tensed. He didn't trust Emil—had said so outright—and Eleanor, though she wouldn't admit it aloud, wasn't entirely sure she did either.
Still, she welcomed distraction. Between Advanced Potions, Charms theory, and their newly begun Apparition lessons, she barely had a moment to breathe.
She stayed at school over Easter, citing revision and practice for the Apparition test. Astraea's letters, now as chirpy as a Niffler in a jewellery shop, gushed over Emil's continued interest.
"Not evenonepicture of you and Emil in Hogsmeade!" Astraea had written. "Not asinglemention in Witch Weekly! That Rita Skeeter wouldn't know proper news if it danced a waltz in her parlour."
Eleanor sighed, tucked the letter between her History of Magic notes, and tried to concentrate on the Witch Trials of 1692. When Madam Pince announced the library was closing, she packed her things and headed down to the dungeons.
The Slytherin common room was in an uproar. Montague was red in the face, Bole practically foaming.
"TheQuidditchpitch—a maze! They've butchered our turf!"
"What on earth is going on?" Eleanor asked Berenice, who was comfortably seated near the windows, her lap full of Divination notes.
"The Third Task," Berenice said, flipping a page inThe Dream Oracle. "Beaufort said they're turning the Quidditch pitch into a maze. You'd think those two would realise it'll be vanished with a flick once it's done. Honestly."
"So the final task is on the 24th of June," Eleanor murmured. "Right after the Arithmancy exam. Speaking of—fancy revising together tomorrow? I'm still struggling with reduction, and I know you've done it in Divination."
"Absolutely," Berenice beamed. "I'll see if Adrian wants to join too. And hang in there, Eleanor—just a bit over a month and then—"
"Then I go home and listen to my mother's delighted crowing all summer," Eleanor groaned. "Shame I can't camp out on the Hogwarts grounds."
"You can always visit us," Berenice offered with a wink. "You know that, right?"
"Thanks, Bunny," Eleanor said, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips.