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21st of November 1994, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Harry and Hermione sat together on the parapets of Hogwarts looking down across the Black Lake and watching the sunrise. They were isolated from their classmates, their house, the entire school. Even Ron, once their friend, was shunning Harry over his forced participation in the Tri-Wizard Tournament.
In only four days Harry would have to face a dragon. The only plan he had was to summon his broom, his Firebolt, and fly. Fly against one of the greatest beasts of the sky.
"I'm going to die, aren't I?" He whispered, shaking slightly as his eyes began to water.
“Harry…” Hermione sat next to him, hoping to offer some comfort with her proximity; but clearly it wasn’t enough. Not with the task so near.
“Eaten by a bloody dragon. It’ll be impressive, I’m sure.” He laughed weakly. “I’m scared, Hermione. I don’t want to die.” Tears began flowing down his cheeks as he went silent, staring off into the distance.
Hermione couldn’t prevent her own tears from falling as she watched Harry break down. He had faced death before, but not with so much time to think on what was ahead.
She shuffled closer and wrapped herself around him, holding him tightly. “Don’t give up,” she whispered, “please, don’t give up. Try and survive. Win, I know you can.”
He didn’t respond except to lean into her, lightly placing one of his hands over hers and gripping it tightly.
Something felt right about the way she was holding him. She wondered if this was how her mother felt when she held her as she cried. But no, this was more than that, this wasn't just offering him comfort; she felt like Harry belonged in her arms, not just when he was sad, but when he was happy too.
Feeling the warmth of his body beneath her, hearing his agonisingly shaky breaths, the wetness of his tears dripping from his face onto her hands, she knew she wouldn’t survive losing him. Not as she was. It would change her, break her, irreparably.
They remained in their embrace until the sun had risen well into the sky before Harry spoke up again. His tears had long since dried up, but his voice was choked and weak. “Hermione, could you… will you do me a favour?”
“Anything.” She replied without hesitation. There wasn’t a single thing she would refuse him at that moment. He needed her more than ever, and she desperately needed to not lose her best friend. “Truly. I mean it, Harry. Anything. Even if it’s just a distraction, to help you relax, just ask.”
He slowly turned his head and stared her in the eye. For a moment she thought he might kiss her, or ask for even more than a kiss and her breath caught, but the moment passed.
“Can you convince McGonagall to take me to Diagon Alley before the task? I… I need to do something there.”
“Professor McGonagall,” she corrected automatically, “And of course, Harry.” Hermione wasn’t sure if she was relieved by the simplicity of his request or disappointed he didn’t ask something more from her. “But… Why don’t you think you could do that yourself?”
“She likes you, unlike me… It’s like I only exist when she needs to give me detention.” He looked away, hiding his expression from her. “I’ve seen Cedric with Professor Sprout, sometimes even Professor Flitwick. Krum is with Karkaroff all the time. Professor McGonagall on the other hand… she hasn’t said a word to me.”
“The champions aren’t supposed to get help from the staff, it just means she isn’t going to help you cheat!” Hermione responded indignantly, “If you’re–”
“I’m not planning on cheating Hermione, no more… no more than knowing about the dragons is cheating.” He tensed in her arms as he spoke, his frustration evident in more than just his voice. “But it would be nice if our Head of House, the Deputy Headmistress, said something, anything, to support me when the whole school seems to want to see me dead.”
“Oh.” Hermione replied meekly, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…”
“Shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions?” Harry’s voice turned playful. He was teasing her. Even if he seemed to have forgiven her quickly, she still felt guilty.
“Yes.” She squeezed him tightly and rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to go ask her now?”
“As soon as possible. I… I want this done.” His voice was firm, “I need this done.”
“Alright, as soon as I see her.” Even with a flicker of hope burning in her chest she couldn’t help but worry. What could he need to be done so badly, so desperately, in Diagon Alley? He already had a plan, as much as she didn’t like it, and it played to his strengths.
Did his Firebolt need maintenance? She had gotten him a kit last year, had the supplies run out already? Did he want it checked over by professionals? A fireproof robe? Whatever it was, Hermione could only hope he got it. Harry needed to survive this. He just had to.
--oOoOo--
Harry was disappointed by the fact Hermione didn’t manage to corner Professor McGonagall until that afternoon after their Transfiguration lesson. She hadn’t attended either breakfast or lunch in the great hall for one reason or another. Hermione did, however, convince McGonagall to take him to Diagon – so long as he informed the professor what he was going to the alley for and it didn’t violate any rules.
Hermione had come with him to the professor’s office as moral support but he didn’t really want her to know what he was up to.
“Well, Mister Potter? I do hope you have a good reason for requesting this excursion?” McGonagall, not that it surprised him, seemed resigned to helping him more than anything. If he hadn’t asked Hermione to persuade her she likely wouldn’t have given him the time of day, let alone heard him out.
He glanced at Hermione who stood by his side, fretting as she rubbed at her wrists. “I’d like to keep that private, please. Just… can you cast a secrecy or silencing charm or something, Professor?”
He knew Hermione would be hurt by him keeping her out of the loop. But what he was going to do would upset her more. She’d try to deny it, to talk him out of it, and she might even succeed. He had to do it. He wished he could get her help with this, she almost certainly knew as much or more than he did.
Hermione retreated away slowly, and as the door to the office clicked open, she paused. “Good luck, Harry,” she said. With a click the door closed, and Harry flinched.
McGonagall raised her eyebrow at Harry, who resolutely stared over her shoulder at a painting behind her desk. Without so much as a flicker of expression on her face McGonagall flicked her wand. “We are secure from prying ears Mister Potter.”
“Right… I, I want to make a will.” Harry blurted out, he wanted this meeting over as quickly as possible.
McGonagall blinked and both her eyebrows rose up into her hairline. An expression of shock Harry had never seen on his stern Head of House before. “A… a will, Harry?”
For a moment Harry thought he could hear concern in her voice, but she quickly schooled her expression and pursed her lips. Whatever it had been it was gone as quickly as had come.
“A will. A Last Will and Testament.” Harry sighed deeply and stared at his shoes, “I know what the task is professor, and… I, I don’t think… I might not make it.”
“I see.” Harry remained still, only briefly curious as to what face McGonagall might be making now. Would it be the same stern visage as ever, or would she care that one of her students was afraid of dying? In the end it didn’t matter. She hadn’t helped, and even what he was asking for now didn’t really count as help.
“Your request… it doesn’t fall inside what would normally be acceptable.”
Harry’s heart sunk at her words. He’d thought, just maybe, she would do something for him. Just once. But he should’ve–
“However, these are not normal circumstances. If you… if you believe you need this, to feel freer and more confident for the upcoming task – and I will not ask how you learnt of the task – then I will escort you to Diagon Alley tomorrow during the lunch period.
Harry breathed a sigh of relief and looked up at his Head of House and gave her a weak smile. “Thank you, Professor.”
That evening saw Hermione lingering by his side even longer than was normal since October 31st. She pushed him to perfect the summoning charm even more and helped him complete his homework with a ferocity he had never seen. She didn’t snap at him, didn’t badger him, just sat next to him and helped. Correcting his spelling, pointing out mistakes, giving him examples from her own work.
In one evening he was suddenly further ahead on his homework than he had been all year. He knew she would worry about his secretiveness, her curiosity burning to know about his trip to Diagon. But still she didn’t ask. Just made sure he knew she was there. No matter how desperately she wanted to know.
He couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t even hint to her that he was planning for his death. Not that he planned to die, but in case he died. Because he probably would.
The next day, when it was finally time to head to Diagon Alley, he barely convinced her to let him go with a single, bone-crushing, hug before she left for lunch and he went to meet with McGonagall.
“Are you ready to go, Mister Potter?”
Harry hesitated for a moment, glancing towards the great hall where Hermione was probably staring at her food and not eating due to her worrying. “Yeah, ready as I’ll ever be.”
With a shout of ‘Diagon Alley!’ the two stepped through the Floo in the Deputy Headmistress’ office.
--oOoOo--
Vault Keeper Ripstalk was rather surprised when a message came from the front of the bank informing him that the Potter Account Holder was here to see him. Surprised and slightly annoyed. After all, he’d had thirteen blessed years without Wizard interference on the accounts, only minor withdrawals for Tuition and school supplies. Nothing worth noting. He even had gifts coming in! Gifts sent to the vaults he managed for the 'Boy-Who-Lived'! While he couldn't understand the Wizarding World’s baffling sense of 'generosity' he certainly made use of it, and the Potter – Potter-Peverell now, he reminded himself with pride – vaults were fuller than ever before.
But, annoyed as he might be, Ripstalk couldn’t refuse to see the Account Holder. Not on his first visit. After this one he could demand an appointment and make the wizard wait weeks if he felt like it.
He pushed aside the parchmentwork for the latest contribution to the accounts – a bequeathment from some dead wizard named Pemberton – and set about preparing for the Account Holder, grumbling all the while. Typical forms and inquests were kept on hand just for this purpose, no self-respecting goblin wanted a meeting with a client to take longer than absolutely necessary.
When the pair – the Account Holder and an older witch – walked in he casually waved the boy to take a seat. The witch might be frowning at his lack of seating for her, but he had no obligations towards anyone other than his client. And besides, such pettiness might even make the meeting amusing.
“Welcome Account Holder, I wish us both a swift and fortunate end to this meeting.” Polite enough, he was sure. And it made it clear that he, as a Vault Keeper, had better things to be getting on with than meeting a client. “I am Vault Keeper of the Potter-Peverell accounts. Your Vault Keeper. What is it you require this day?”
“Er, I need to make… a…” The boy paused and sounded out the words nervously, clearly trying to remember what he needed. “Last Will and Testament.” At least he wasn’t like some of his kind and utterly inept, needing advice on what the proper name for something was. Only a little slow and stupid, something to be grateful for. Some Account Holders were truly atrocious, even for Wizards.
“Hmm, a will. Are you not a little young for that, Account Holder Potter?”
“I, well, I have a suspicion I might… that I might die. This week.” The boy’s voice reeked of nervousness. Almost fearful. A shameful display, especially if it was a planned death. His furtive glance towards his escort was peculiar, but Ripstalk had a hard time reading wizard expressions at the best of times.
This, an unexpected meeting, was not the best of times.
“Predicting your own death? I do hope you aren’t planning something, Account Holder.” Ripstalk grumbled as he shuffled his prepared parchmentwork. This was not one of the standard forms he had prepared. “The parchmentwork alone would be…” Ripstalk paused over one sheaf of paper, naming the beneficiaries of the vaults in case of the Account Holder’s death.
There were none.
“You. You are the last Potter.”
“Er, yeah. I thought that was–”
“No.” Ripstalk stated firmly, “You are the last Potter. The last in line to inherit. There no other possible candidates for inheritance – no cousins, no Potter blood relations at all within seven degrees of separation.” Ripstalk matched the Account Holder’s stare with his own and snarled. “This is unacceptable.”
“I, I don’t understand.”
“Clearly. This complicates matters – the Will is required, as are other matters.” Ripstalk reached below his desk and pulled forth a small black basin and reached for a sharp and shining golden knife. The witch was about to speak up as the Account Holder turned towards her, but Ripstalk glowered at her and she backed down – no outsider was permitted to interfere with Family business within Gringotts. Not once the Account Holder chose Gringotts over the Ministry.
Once the witch settled back to watching impassively Ripstalk turned back to the Account Holder and handed him the knife before pushing the bowl forward. “Bleed. It will be required – do you have a Primary Beneficiary in mind already?”
“Um. What?” The boy was clearly confused. Ripstalk bared his teeth in frustration. This was why he had enjoyed his time managing the accounts in peace. Wizards, as ever, got in the way of banking.
"Someone whom the majority of your estate, all that is not declared to be passed to specific individuals, is granted to."
The Account Holder stared dumbly for a moment before glancing at the knife and bowl in confusion. Clearly the boy was still confused – perhaps he had been wrong to give him credit earlier. “If I must simplify further–”
“What? No. I understood that. But… bleeding?”
Ripstalk paused. The Account Holder couldn’t possibly not know about– no, he was a wizard. Of course he wouldn’t. They don’t know anything of value. “Blood and magic, Account Holder. If you wish to pass more than mere gold to another it is necessary. As no one carries Potter blood, blood must be shed instead. And with the magical intent to pass on your holdings to another.” The name itself being included Ripstalk chose not to mention. Wizards could be peculiar about their family names, but he had Vaults that needed to be maintained and they would only accept a Potter. Blood and Ritual may be lesser than Blood and Birth, but it would have to do.
Comprehension had finally dawned on the Account Holder and Ripstalk felt relief that the explanation had actually worked. Sadly, such slow comprehension was still above average for a Wizard. “Again, Account Holder, bleed. Fill the bowl, it will be required if you do perish.”
He tried to hold back his grin as the boy began to bleed into the bowl – he truly did. It wasn’t proper to frighten children – but it was hard to do so. Instead, Ripstalk settled for staring at the Witch escorting the Account Holder. While waiting for the bowl to fill – and not being able to properly enjoy the bloodshed – he might as well satisfy his curiosity. And intimidate the Witch too.
“Why does my Account Holder believe he might perish in the coming week, Witch? Are you not an educator, and he, your charge?”
The Account Holder looked about to speak, but the Witch began first. Good. Best he be left to focus on bleeding, Wizards were so flimsy that they needed all their concentration for that.
“Mister Potter was selected by the Goblet of Fire to compete in the Tri-Wizard Tournament. The first task is in two days, this Thursday, on the twenty-fourth of November.” Ripstalk already knew this, but it was good confirmation for why the Account Holder suspected that he might die. He gave the witch a nod – one of the few Wizarding gestures he understood fully – to urge her to continue.
She did not.
“And?” Ripstalk growled after a few moments. “A wizard competition is hardly a reason to believe one would die. You coddle your young.”
“Dragons,” the Account Holder spoke up, “The first task is Dragons.”
The lingering disdain Ripstalk had from the Account Holder’s resignation towards death faded swiftly. Dragons were not to be trifled with. Not without training. Never Tickle a Sleeping Dragon; one of the few sayings Wizards had that made sense.
“I see.” Ripstalk turned back to the Witch, the Educator, “Witch, the Account Holder is one of your charges; to face a dragon is a test of mettle, but not one to be faced by the unready. How, exactly, could such a situation have occurred?”
The witch flinched and Ripstalk seethed. To coddle their young only to throw them to their doom, Witches and Wizards alike were fools. To claim to be a protector of children and let this occur would be a death sentence for a goblin. Yet he could offer no true retribution upon the witch, her crime was not one against a goblin. Merely offensive due to its very existence.
Perhaps he could speak with the Lesser Vault Keepers and have a black mark placed on the Witch’s account and that of her superior. It would mean little, but whatever petty spite he could manage would have to do. To fail in one’s duty so utterly required something be done. His honour demanded no less.
The witch shifted slightly, but he could not tell if it was out of nervousness or simple discomfort. Witches were no less baffling to read than Wizards, unlike Ripstalk’s fellow goblins.
“Once Mister Potter’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire there was nothing to be done.” She lied. Or spoke falsehood. She spoke as if it were the truth, but it was false nonetheless, even if the lies might not be her own. “We are searching for the perpetrator, and with the former Auror Moody on the task it is inevitable that we will find the saboteur.”
Ripstalk snorted. The witch’s confidence was misplaced, undoubtedly. Relying on a Wizard to discover duplicity was a fool’s dream. Returning to the Account Holder he found the bowl nearly full and reached out to take the boy’s hand, waving his own over it to seal the cut cleanly. “Enough. That is plenty. If you do not wish it to scar, use Wizard healing – outside the bank.” He growled as the witch reached for her wand. “Now, the blood will provide the continuation of the Account to the Primary Beneficiary – it is time to write the will itself.”
The blade was quickly cleansed while the boy began reading the guidelines provided for a Gringotts Last Will and Testament. Curiously, the spells to detect anything untoward on the Account Holder indicated the boy laboured under a curse of some kind. But his mind was his own, his body was, if not healthy, able. Sufficient to meet the standards for submitting a Will at the very least.
The Account Holder had not asked for a health inspection so there was no reason to bring up the curse. Goblins did not do anything they were not paid to do. Charity was a Wizard concept.
The next hour saw Ripstalk walk the Account Holder through the writing of an acceptable Last Will and Testament, and having to answer frustratingly simple questions pertaining to the value of the account. Each answer left the boy ever more surprised; if only he had the intelligence to ask for an account statement he might even learn the full contents of the vaults.
The end result was shorter than most Wizarding wills held at Gringotts, but with the writer still a child it was understandable that he would have fewer he felt indebted to, fewer he needed to repay upon his death. And fewer enemies he needed to insult.
Taking out a Blood Quill, Ripstalk signed the document as the official Gringotts witness before handing it to the Witch. “Sign, you are the Wizarding witness for the document.” He grinned in amusement at the witch’s scowl as she took the quill and relished the slight hiss she released as the quill cut the blood from the back of her hand.
Truly it was the small things in life that made it all worthwhile.
“Now you, Account Holder.” He ignored the boy’s muttered ‘Call me Harry’ once more and held himself back from enjoying a child’s pain. The boy – no, the challenger was going to face a dragon. He would either emerge a corpse or a warrior. Either way, he deserved some respect.
“Is your business here finished?” At their nods he continued. “Then we are done here.” A brief wave of his hand saw a copy of the will made and stamped with ‘Official Gringotts Copy’, “and Account Holder – this is yours. Keep it, pass it to another for safekeeping, show it off to all, burn it, it is your sole free copy. Do with it as you will.”
Truthfully the copy was utterly worthless. The original would be locked away and sealed so that it could only be opened upon the owner’s death, superseding any wills not filed at Gringotts. No goblin would accept a document not sourced and secured at Gringotts when a Gringotts document was available. That this meant the Account Holder could never file a will with the Wizarding Ministry was merely a bonus.
Still, wizards liked to have a copy they could keep for themselves. To do what with was any goblin’s guess. Not that many cared to guess, understanding wizards was for cashiers.
Neither the Account Holder nor the witch gave the proper farewells as they left, leaving Ripstalk to debate adding a mark to the account for rudeness. After some thought he decided against it; it was a first meeting, three years late, and the child had been denied his heritage. Perhaps, if Ripstalk had been a Wizard – and he shuddered at the very thought – he might have offered insight into just how much the Account Holder didn’t know.
Setting up the blood adoption ritual for one Hermione Jane Granger in the case of the Account Holder’s death didn’t count. Even if it hadn’t been asked for directly. The boy had wanted to give the girl everything, and if that meant the accounts would continue after the boy’s death, all the better. It wasn’t as if he could be expected to solve all of the Account Holder’s problems.
Snorting at the very idea Ripstalk returned to his parchmentwork, scheming more ways to increase the wealth of the Potter-Peverell accounts and outdo his fellow Vault Keepers.
--oOoOo--
The two days between Harry's trip to Diagon and the first task were some of the most nerve-wracking Hermione had ever experienced. Harry grew ever more impatient, Krum kept staring at them in the library as they researched and dragged his gaggle of fan-girls with him. Harry, at the least, had always managed to keep his fan-girls at arm’s length. Sometimes she wondered if he even knew he had them.
Between the strange stares, the stalking quidditch star, dealing with Harry's temper, and just not knowing what Harry had gone to Diagon for she felt like she was going mad. At least if she did, she would fit in better. Sanity seemed to be a rather unwanted commodity amongst wizards. But he had asked her to trust him when he came back from the Alley, he had even initiated a hug! Which was new. So she would. Not that she would ever stop trusting Harry. It meant a lot that he had become comfortable enough with her to initiate physical contact himself, but that only made it harder to see him face such danger.
“Good luck Harry,” she whispered as she gave him one final hug before he walked into the champions’ tent with Professor McGonagall. She barely suppressed the urge to kiss him good luck; he didn’t need the distraction. Not now. Not with this.
"He has the charm down, he has his broom." She muttered, "He'll be fine. He can outfly anything!"
Despite her words, she couldn’t seem to bring herself to believe them. She had difficulty controlling her breathing as she slowly made her way into the stands. She was only just climbing up to the seating when Professor McGonagall began to walk beside her and the call for Cedric to enter the arena echoed loudly above them.
As much as she wanted to support the Hufflepuff – him being the actual Hogwarts champion rather than the Hogwarts victim that Harry was - she couldn’t bring herself to hurry up the steps to watch.
"Miss Granger?" Startled by the professor addressing her so suddenly Hermione jumped, "My apologies, Miss Granger. I merely wished to ask if you would sit with me? There is unlikely to be much common seating left with how we were both... delayed by Mister Potter." Hermione could hear a hint of nervousness in the normally stoic Head of Gryffindor. The normally unflappable Scot was showing concern for Harry.
“Um, alright,” Hermione responded awkwardly. She had intended, or expected rather, to end up sitting near Ron. The last few days he had been worse than ever – she had tried to be a bridge between him and Harry, to help them make up, but Ron just didn't want to. And Harry... Harry refused to make the first move. Not that she could blame him. That she had spent so much time helping Harry – even if she wouldn't skip classes for him or let him skip out on homework – was a sore point for the youngest Weasley boy.
Sitting with the professors would be a welcome break from having to deal with Ron’s moodiness as she watched Harry fly. Something that was terrifying enough without dragons being involved.
She followed Professor McGonagall through the stands to the small area set aside for the staff of the various schools and found herself squeezed in between her Head of House and Professor Flitwick. The latter of which gave her a sparkling, if a little pointy, grin. She’d never seen his teeth from so close before, and they were sharp.
"Hello Miss Granger!" he greeted her jovially, "Come to watch young Mister Potter take on the challenge with us then?" As he turned back to the ongoing task Cedric’s dragon roasted a dog, whose painful dying whine echoed briefly before cutting out. The sound turned her stomach and she had to remind herself that it was certainly a transfiguration and not a real dog.
"Yes, professor," she replied quietly. Only moments later she had to cover her face as Cedric was caught by the Swedish Short-Snout's flames. He still made it past the dragon and retrieved a golden egg, what she realised must be the goal of the task, but she had no idea if he had managed to protect himself from the dragon-fire or not. The Short-Snout was famous for the heat of its breath, but maybe the seventh year had found something that would work.
She hadn't. So Harry hadn't either. The image of Harry surrounded by dragon-fire and burning alive-
"Miss Granger!" A firm hand on Hermione’s shoulder dragged her out of her thoughts as Fleur Delacour entered the arena along with her Welsh Green "Are you alright?"
Professor McGonagall was giving Hermione such a look of concern Hermione realised she was hyperventilating. She hadn’t panicked this badly since the Troll – even with Professor Lupin, Sirius, and the Dementors she hadn’t felt so helpless. Maybe with the Dementors. But that wasn’t panic, that was soul-crushing terror and surrendering herself to die.
Completely different.
She took several deep breaths to calm herself down and nodded to the Professor that she was fine. It was easier watching Fleur; she didn’t dislike the french witch, but she didn’t particularly care for her either, so when the Veela’s attempt to put the dragon to sleep failed and it woke up as she was walking away it wasn’t as painful to watch.
She did flinch, however, when Professor Flitwick howled over Krum’s curse striking his dragon’s eye, causing it to stomp all over its own eggs. She almost cheered when the dragon knocked him aside with one of its legs, making him cradle his arm and have to completely retry his approach. No mother should have to kill her own children, and he had made the dragon do just that.
In the end it was almost two hours after she had left Harry by the champion’s tent before it was finally his turn. She could barely stop herself biting through her own lip with worry as he walked into the arena facing the biggest and most dangerous of all the dragons. She knew he had killed a basilisk back in their second year, something just as dangerous, but this was a Dragon. A giant, fire-breathing, dragon.
She found her hand in Professor McGonagall’s whose face had gone stark white, much like Hermione’s own.
When he yelled out “Accio Firebolt!” she felt a rush of pride. She had taught him that charm, tutored him until he could cast it perfectly. Beside her Professor Flitwick seemed to be of a similar opinion, speaking over her head with Professor McGonagall about Harry’s strategy – but Hermione wasn’t paying attention to them, or to the screaming announcer who was failing miserably at describing the spectacle.
The Firebolt soared into the arena to stop immediately in front of Harry. He had cast the summoning charm beyond perfectly; his Firebolt stopped just in the right way to be mounted quickly, and Harry did just that.
As much as Hermione normally felt fear for her reckless friend when he flew, for once it was relief she felt as he mounted his broom and kicked off into the air and high into the sky. That relief, however, was short-lived. Harry soon dove back down towards the dragon, narrowly swerving away from a breath of flame.
She shrieked in fear at his close escape. She wanted desperately to look away, to pretend this wasn’t happening, but she couldn’t. She barely even registered the hands on her shoulders keeping her in her seat when she almost leapt up as if to jump into the Arena to rescue Harry from the task.
“Harry! She cried, gasping for air, as Harry made another dive towards the Hungarian Horntail. He dodged the flames once again, but she saw the dragon’s tail sweep out and strike his shoulder. “No!” She couldn’t tell how badly he’d been hurt, but he remained airborne. She could only hope that it was just a scratch.” “He’s okay. He’s okay. Just his robes. He’s okay.” She muttered to herself, trying desperately to believe that it was true.
Time seemed to slow down as Harry continued his aerial dance with the Horntail, swerving left and right, up and down, just barely out of reach. “He’s trying to lure it away!” Her realisation came just before the dragon reared up with its wings spread wide and Harry made one final dive, going straight for the nest and snatching the golden egg up from the ground and speeding to the exit of the arena.
The moment Harry had his egg and was clear of the dragon Hermione forced herself to her feet, throwing off the Professor’s hands as she began running back out of the stands and down towards the champions’ tent.
--oOoOo--
Harry left the tent after Madam Pomfrey pronounced him ‘healthy enough’ and found everything to be a little strange. A little out of focus. Only a few minutes ago everything had seemed just right, where he could do anything and remain calm. Now he felt the enormity of what he just did – outflying a dragon and living – crashing down on him.
He hadn’t needed the will after all. He’d left his ‘free’ copy the goblin had given him in the champions’ tent, just to make sure they knew what to do if he had died. Luckily he’d managed to pick it up before Madam Pomfrey had thrown him out.
No one would know about it unless he told them.
He stood in the cold November air and shivered. He didn’t immediately start heading up to the castle as he could see his friends – friend – approaching. Hermione and Ron.
"Harry, you were Brilliant!" Hermione's voice was squeaky, strained and her face had marks where she must have been clutching at it in fear. It didn’t seem like she was even aware they were there. "You were amazing! You really were!"
But he couldn't keep his focus on Hermione, there was this red-headed elephant staring at him, pale as a ghost.
"Harry," he said, "whoever put your name in that goblet - I - I reckon they're trying to do you in!"
Glancing at Hermione he noted her incredulous look, knowing both he and she had told Ron just that numerous times over the last three weeks. But he had never listened.
"Caught on, have you?" Harry's response was cold – he had forgiven Ron in his will, but here and now he needed something more than a passing acknowledgement. "Took you long enough."
Hermione looked between them nervously, as Ron opened his mouth, before closing it again. He repeated that action several times, never able to find the words.
"Okay," Harry said as he realised whatever it was he was waiting for wasn't forthcoming. "Forget it. Hermione? Can we..." He could see Ron grinning at him oddly, so Harry gave him a brief glare, stifling the redhead’s grin. He wasn’t letting Ron get off that easily. He turned his attention back to Hermione. "Hermione, you wanted to know why I went to Diagon?"
He heard Ron mutter "He went to Diagon...?" as if it was a personal insult that Ron hadn’t been told. But Harry ignored it; Ron needed to know what it was like.
Hermione nodded and Harry smiled at her. "Let's go somewhere private and I'll tell you, okay?"
"Alright," She said as she reached out and grabbed his hand, dragging him out towards the Black Lake. Behind them he heard McGonagall stop Ron following them, telling him to give them privacy.
After they were a fair distance away from anyone who might want to listen in Hermione began her inquisition. “So, why did you go to Diagon? There wasn’t anything new out there – you can outfly a dragon –” Harry could hear the slightly shaky awe in her voice as she said that, and winced as tears began to well up in her eyes. “But it was just you and the old plan. What did you need so badly you had me get Professor McGonagall for you?”
"I... Iwentandmadeawill." He rushed it all out, nervous in a way he hadn't been with the Dragon,
"Harry, can you repeat that... slower?"
"I, um, I went to Gringotts, and I... I made a will. In case I died." He stared at his feet, just knowing she must have been giving him a look, one of concern – disapproval – pity – and his train of thought was interrupted by being engulfed in the arms of his bushy-haired friend.
"Harry... I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry.”
"What?" She said sorry, which left Harry rather confused. In no world did he expect her to apologise for him making a will.
"I should've... I should have helped more. Who cares if you cheat, you have to live. It's... it's so much more important." She pulled back a little and he could see her face, tears glistening in her eyes and on her cheeks. “Books and cleverness… I said friendship was more important than them, but I should’ve added rules to that. Your friendship, our friendship is more important than any stupid rules.”
"No," he refuted firmly, "You... You stood by me. You were there, you helped when I asked. You've nothing to be sorry for Hermione."
"Oh, Harry..." She pulled him close again and he wrapped his own arms around her this time. “Is the will… is it private?”
"It is," He had said things in the will he didn't really want her to see. "but... if you want to read it, you can." She had, after all, been the reason he could make it.
She squeezed him tighter. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." He really wasn't, but... maybe it would change something. He took the folded copy out of his pocket and handed it to her.
"I'll read it as we go back and get your score, maybe Ron'll have an apology for you by the time we get there?" she said with a smile.
Harry doubted it, but he did need to get his score so they headed back anyway, Hermione reading his will as they walked.
--oOoOo--
I, Harry James Potter, being of sound mind and body do hereby declare the following my Last Will and Testament, on this 22nd of November, 1994.
To Ronald Weasley, the man I love as a brother, I leave to you my Firebolt and a thousand Galleons, I pray you live a good life. Treat Hermione well, I know you have fancied her since last year so I stepped aside, she is worth the world so you better give it to her. I hope you come around and understand I wasn't lying, and if I'm not there to say it myself - I forgive you.
To Padfoot, my Godfather, Sirius Black, I leave you the photo album Hagrid gave me for my first Christmas. I know you have more money than you need, so I hope you can cherish these photos as much as I do instead of a more material gift.
To Fred and George Weasley, I return the parchment you gave me, and I hope you manage much mischief with it. Never forget the Marauders.
To Mr and Mrs Weasley, you showed me what a family was supposed to be, so thank you. I leave to you both one thousand Galleons each - I have been assured my vaults are sufficient for this, so take it and use it well. Your children are my friends, and deserve more.
To Hermione Jane Granger, I leave all that remains, my cloak, all my books, Hedwig if she'll accept you, everything from my Vault the keeper has said I can give you. I didn't know what love was until I met you, until I had been with you for years - you were my first hug, the first person to hold me without planning to hurt me. The first person I felt comfortable touching. There is nothing in this world I wouldn't do for you if I could, just to see you smile.
Goodbye, I go to face a dragon - and I suspect I shall not survive, may you all live longer lives than I did.
Hermione had stopped walking as she had reached the second to last paragraph, and as she finished reading she was sobbing. Harry turned to look at her, worry, discomfort, and a little fear all written across his face and she couldn’t take it. She walked in front of him, pulled him close, and gave him the slightest of pecks on the lips.
“You survived, Harry, you lived.” She paused to breathe in deeply, watching the apprehension overtake all else on his face. “And… I li– I love you too, Harry.”
His answering grin melted her heart, and the way he pulled her close to him set it beating ever faster. He had lived, and what’s more, he loved her. And she loved him back. What had begun as a day in the shadow of a dragon had ended as a day of wonders.