Chapter 8
The first snowfall came early that year.
Thin and sharp, like lace woven from frostbite, it dusted the castle grounds with a silver sheen that glittered under the morning sun. Students marveled at it as they trudged toward breakfast, bundled in cloaks and scarves, noses pink with cold.
Harriet didn’t notice the snow.
She noticed the silence.
Ron hadn’t spoken to her since their confrontation after the First Task. Hermione was pretending civility — just enough words to keep suspicion away, not enough to feel real. The rest of Gryffindor House was split: some treating her like a hero, others watching her with careful, wary eyes, as if she might combust at any moment.
She supposed she might.
It wouldn’t be the worst thing.
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In Transfiguration, things unraveled.
They were working on elemental manipulations — turning water into mist, controlling flame shapes. McGonagall lectured briskly, wand slicing through the air with elegant precision.
Harriet flicked her wand and conjured a beautiful, slow-blooming ring of fire that hovered above her palm, contained and controlled.
Hermione glared at it.
“Careful, Harry,” she said tightly, loud enough for the front row to hear. “You’re not supposed to show off.”
Harriet didn’t flinch. She let the flame spin gently above her fingers and smiled sweetly. “I’m not showing off. I’m just not pretending to be mediocre.”
A few students snickered.
Hermione’s face turned a blotchy pink.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Harriet extinguished the flame with a flick.
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Later that day, it escalated.
Someone poured a slippery potion on the stairs near the library.
Harriet stepped onto it — and would’ve gone down hard if a firm grip hadn’t caught her wrist mid-fall and yanked her backward.
She collided with something warm. Solid.
Someone.
She looked up.
Viktor.
He didn’t say anything.
Just glared down the hallway, where a few Slytherins were laughing — but not looking at them. Watching something else. Someone else.
Ron.
Half-hidden around the corner.
Watching.
And when Viktor stepped forward with a dangerous look in his eyes, Ron vanished like smoke.
Harriet didn’t pull away.
Viktor finally looked at her.
“You are being hunted,” he said flatly.
“I’m used to it.”
He didn’t look amused. “You shouldn’t have to be.”
She stared at him.
“I’m not weak.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why they’re afraid.”
---
The next day, someone tampered with her potions ingredients.
She didn’t notice until her cauldron let out a high-pitched shriek and exploded in a cloud of purple mist that made her skin break out in green scales.
Slughorn rushed over in a panic.
“Oh dear, Miss Potter—sorry, Miss Malfoy,” he said, fumbling for a reversal draught. “Must’ve been a contaminated batch, eh? Very unusual!”
She locked eyes with Hermione across the room.
Hermione was smiling.
Not a big smile.
But a satisfied, smug little smirk like she’d solved a riddle no one else had seen.
Harriet said nothing.
She drank the potion, wiped the remnants off her sleeve, and walked straight to the Owlery.
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Her letter was short.
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They’re getting bold.
I’d like your opinion on whether restraint is still the proper approach.
H.
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His reply came within hours.
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Restraint was never necessary.
Only strategic.
Meet me. Midnight. Astronomy Tower.
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She almost didn’t go.
Not because she was afraid — but because she didn’t want to be seen going.
Too late. That line had already blurred.
She wrapped herself in a cloak and slipped through the halls like a shadow. Her footsteps made no sound. Her wand was warm in her sleeve.
When she reached the tower, he was already there.
Viktor stood at the edge, arms crossed, hair damp from the snow.
He didn’t speak.
He just watched her approach.
“You’re getting predictable,” she said quietly, stepping beside him.
“You’re getting reckless,” he countered.
She tilted her head. “You came.”
“I always would have.”
That startled her more than it should have.
She turned to face him fully.
“They’re not just petty anymore,” she said. “Hermione is sabotaging my work. Ron’s trying to trip me. There was a hex on my pillow this morning.”
His eyes darkened.
“I can’t touch them,” she continued. “Not yet. Not without becoming what they want to paint me as.”
“No,” Viktor agreed. “You don’t need to touch them.”
She looked at him.
He stepped closer.
“I will.”
Her breath caught.
“I don’t need a guard.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You don’t have one.”
She blinked.
He leaned in slightly. “You have me.”
She looked down, overwhelmed for a moment by the heat in her chest.
“That sounds dangerously close to an alliance,” she whispered.
“Good,” he said. “Dangerous is what you need.”
She met his eyes again.
And this time, she didn’t look away.
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